Violate Delights
by Caspell
Summary: The American Horror Story Tate's perspective. How much of what he says is really a lie? What was the motivation behind the murders? How does he really feel about Violet?
1. Chapter 1

Their furniture was strange, but not more so than the gay couple's from two years earlier. Tate stood amongst their packing boxes, running his fingers curiously over the unfamiliar technology, flipping briefly through photo albums and cd cases.

He knew there were three of them, could see their names scrawled clearly on the boxes in harsh black nikko. 'Ben's' belongings were quality – trappings of a man that cared for his appearance and demonstrating his wealth to others. 'Viv' – probably Vivien – had some fascination with organics and skincare and designer homewares, which Tate skimmed over without interest.

The boxes marked 'Violet' gave him a thrill of delight when he found them. Who was this person that listened to music religiously and whose clothes didn't look like the girls that walked past the house on their way to school? He studied her books with building excitement. He knew that she was upstairs with her parents, could hear them noisily unpacking furniture, and he itched to go and look at them – but he held himself back, savoring the rare moments of mystery that were such a treat in this stagnant mansion. Thaddeus had already seen her, when she chased the Harmon's dog into the basement – he told Tate that her blood smelt like lilacs.

'I will say this: he has impeccable dress sense.' Tate glanced over at Chad, who was studying Ben Harmon's folded wardrobe critically.

'If you take one shirt from that suitcase I'll cut your hands off,' said Moira without much venom. She was occupied with looking at the Harmons' collection of framed family photos with interest.

'Oh look, Moira's found a new man to eat,' said Chad in a sing-song lilt. Tate dismissed the two of them in bored disgust. Their banter had never held much interest for him.

He was tired of resisting impulse, and in a moment he was standing in his old bedroom, watching a blonde-haired girl tacking posters to her wall.

He studied her ravenously. Slim frame, soft hands. She moved nicely, with an easy nonchalance that he liked. Her clothes were strange: thin tank top, oversized sweater, baggy jeans. She was younger than he had been: barely out of childhood, a girl that hadn't yet learned how to be pretty or delicate or do things with her hair. She wasn't threatening in the slightest, but she didn't have that misty-eyed dopiness of the girls he remembered from school.

He watched her moving through her things, unpacking clothes, piling cds next to the nightstand, hanging a large collection of hats on the antique coat stand that he'd once used to make a bloody Halloween scarecrow to frighten his mother.

At one point he saw her lift a box from a suitcase and, after looking at it deliberately for a moment, hide it in her drawers under some skirts. He reached forward to examine it when she turned around, but Moira was suddenly in front of his hand.

He pulled back in irritation at this private little hour's rude interruption.

"I wasn't stealing anything," he snarled.

"I know," said Moira quietly, "Your mother wants you. She signaled me from her window."

"What does she want?" Tate glowered.

"How should I know?" Moira ran an aged finger over the wooden chest of drawers and scowled at the dirt on it. "This room will need such an unfortunate amount of dusting. How you ever enjoyed it being so dank and dim is beyond me. Go downstairs, Master Tate, your mother is sending Addie over to frighten Madam. She'll want to talk to you in the hall."

Tate looked back at Violet, who had settled on her bed to sort through her laundry.

"I'll watch out for her until you get back. Nobody's going to bother them, it's only their second night in the house. They'll let them get a little settled first, I suspect." Moira gave him a knowing look from her one good eye, and with a sigh Tate disappeared to wait for his mother in the downstairs hall.

She was standing in the shadows by the door, watching Adelaide play with one of the Harmons' dog toys on the floor. Tate stood as far from her as he could while still remaining in the same room.

Constance glanced up and smiled warmly, holding out her arms. "My boy,' she said in her most affectionate drawl. Tate twitched backward, although she was obviously too far to reach him from where she stood, and Constance dropped her arms with only the briefest look of hurt.

"You've seen the new family, I assume," she continued. "I'm concerned about the others. They did get so worked up after you killed the gays. I fear that the bloodlust has entered their souls."

Tate was silent, refusing to encourage her by word or look.

"The Harmons are a promising set. Have you seen all their elegant things? I've a mind to redecorate my own house, so to speak. This Harmon woman has some delightful taste. Her silverware – not to mention that jewellery-" Constance touched her own ears absently.

"Is there a point to this?" Tate said coldly. Addie giggled at him from the floor and Tate winked back at his sister.

"Yes. I want to keep them around for a time – a little longer than the gays, if at all possible – until they get boring. I came to ask you to integrate yourself into their lives, so that you can keep a better eye on them. If the other spirits see you so connected to them they might leave them alone for a short while."

"How do you want me to do that exactly?"

"Ben Harmon is a psychologist- psycho something. Give him an interesting case to work on so he'll keep you on as a regular. I'll call him up and book you an appointment tomorrow."

"Fine," said Tate tiredly, "whatever you like. May I go?"

"Just a moment," said Constance, "Addie-" she said to the girl on the floor, "go in and frighten the Harmon woman for a moment, there's a girl. I'll be with you in a second." Addie stood, brushing the dirt from her dress, and skipped over to hug Tate. He held tightly for a moment before letting her go. She stepped silently out of the hall and through into the kitchen where Vivian Harmon was scraping the walls.

"Tate- my boy-" Constance began, her voice softer, less forced.

Tate stepped further into the shadows. "I'm not your boy. I'll do as you ask to keep the peace. Other than that, leave me alone."

Constance sighed, and then straightened as she heard Vivian's scream of fright. "That's my cue," she drawled, touching up her hair. "I'll call Ben Harmon tomorrow. Take care of yourself. Adelaide," she called out louder, and stepped out of the hall.

She always left a bad taste in his mouth somehow. Reluctantly, Tate decided not to return to Violet's room that night, but to savor it for the morning. Grabbing a pack of cards from one of the packing boxes downstairs, he went back to the basement to play 500 with Thaddeus.

~:~:~

Ben Harmon bored Tate the moment he met him. Open face, sympathetic eyes, quiet, fatherly concern – Tate was a first-class liar, and he took it as a personal insult to be lied to by an amateur.

"So Tate, these..fantasies..started two years ago, three years ago, what?"

"Two years ago," Tate replied. He settled into the familiar stance he adopted when storytelling. "I prepare for the noble war."

He pictured himself from another's perspective, which always allowed him to detach from the lie. To make the memory dramatic he replaced his face with that of a dead thing, a monster. He liked to pretend that he had geared himself up in heavy leather and warpaint that morning. The truth was far less interesting.

Ben Harmon was a good listener because he was paid to be. He played with his pen and looked concerned, and in truth Tate liked a captive audience. He wanted to frighten the man just enough to put him on edge, but a small, tiny part of him wanted that fatherly approval, the acknowledgement that he was special. When Ben described him as creative, Tate had to remind himself why he was there.

Once he glanced up and the Bloodied Other was behind Ben's chair, which had always puzzled Tate. He thought it must be a manifestation of the lie – whenever he dreamed himself into these exciting, dramatic situations, the Other would appear, for no other reason than to be a silent acknowledgement of the real truth. Tate saw it as the price he paid for such proficiency in deception.

Near the end of the session he heard the front door slam which meant that Violet must be home from school. He heard her throw her bag at the wall and storm into the downstairs bathroom, and felt his breath quicken with sudden excitement. He made his replies as monosyllabic as possible, and after a short while Ben called their session to an end.

He waited for a few seconds after Ben had escorted him to the entrance before slipping back to the bathroom door and opening it silently. Violet had her back turned to him, but he could see the angry red slits along her wrist reflected in the mirror and felt his throat constrict. He watched the small drops of blood hitting the sink in silence, though each one seemed loud as cannon fire. He watched her face for signs of passion or anger or pain, but she was deadly calm. It frightened him, and he hadn't been frightened in a long time.

She ran her slim fingers over the wounds, and in a moment it was too much for Tate to bear.

"You're doing it wrong," he blurted, and wondered for a second if he'd only imagined speaking.

Her eyes flashed to the mirror, but she didn't scream. He wondered for an instant what she must think of this strange boy in his dated clothes leaning against her door – her face betrayed nothing. He felt his defenses slide into place as he met her gaze, and in a harsher tone-

"If you're trying to kill yourself, cut vertically. They can't stitch that up."

She spun, and her voice quivered with anger at this personal secret he'd stepped so carelessly into. "How'd you get in here?" she demanded.

He didn't like the way she looked at him; the accusation in the eyes of this girl he felt so curious about felt too personal. He felt his voice turn scornful.

"If you're trying to kill yourself, you might also try locking a door," he quipped, with a patronizing grin. She didn't move, and he pulled the door shut.

He stood there for a moment, hand resting on the door handle, and then stepped into her room a floor upwards. He crossed the floor to the chest of drawers and rifled through it to find the box she had hidden. It was small and aged, covered in worn green velvet, and inside was an untidy jumble of little scissors, knives and blades that she had obviously collected for some time, along with small rolls of gauze and a half-empty box of band-aids.

He slammed the lid back on furiously. Why would she do it to herself? Why had it struck him as a bright idea to taunt her about it, to tell her how it should be done? He shut the drawers and crossed into the basement, brushing Thaddeus aside to go sit in the dilapidated armchair that had long been his favorite. He couldn't have explained why, but somehow it had been important to him that this girl wasn't as crazy as everyone else in the house.

~:~:~

The charade of being Ben Harmon's patient the next day felt a little too galling to bear. Tate lounged on the sofa in the psychiatrist's office, amusing himself with sarcastic little remarks to the ingratiatingly reasonable questions.

Downstairs, the front door opened, and Tate listened to the sound of Violet taking off her shoes and creeping upstairs.

"…And I tell you what, we'd be terrified to lie to him."

Tate glanced over at Ben's smug face. "You think I'm lying to you?" he demanded, rising to his feet and moving to the chair, in order to better watch the doorway. Violet padded softly across the carpet in the hall and peered around the corner into the study. Tate pretended not to notice.

Ben crossed the room to give that more 'personal' approach to his therapy which Tate despised. "I've treated psychotics before, people with the right combination of chemical balance and psychological damage that can't be reached."

Tate looked up at him curiously. He knew that after his death people had thrown around words like schizophrenia and psychosis to explain a quiet schoolboy's 'sudden snap', in order to place as little blame as possible on his 'distraught' mother in her time of grief. It was a funny thing to have it suggested to him again all these years later.

"Do you think that's me? Do you think I can't get better?" from the corner of his eye, he saw Violet stiffen by the door. Would it scare her, knowing that he wasn't quite right? Would it make him somehow more appealing to this girl that took a knife to her own skin?

Ben had made some sort of inane joke that Tate didn't hear and he overcompensated with an enthusiastic laugh to make the man feel as though he was doing his job well.

"Everybody can get better, Tate, everybody. I just think you're scared – of what, I'm not sure yet, maybe rejection."

Tate glanced down, rebuffing the word. He didn't need Violet knowing his weaknesses. "I was afraid my big dick wouldn't work," he said, changing the subject. He grinned at the thought of the expression that must be on Violet's face.

Ben laughed in surprise. "What?"

Tate giggled. "Yeah, that's why I didn't take the meds. I was afraid my dick wouldn't work. Because I met someone."

He heard Violet's soft breathing hitch ever so slightly, and at last met her eyes with his own. Did it hurt her, to think of him meeting someone else? He held her gaze for a moment, then turned back to Ben, who was explaining what the medication would mean to him. When he glanced back at the doorway a moment later, Violet had disappeared.

At the end of the session Moira came in to give Ben the phone, and Tate took the opportunity to usher himself out. He rolled his eyes at Moira's ridiculous French Maid getup. It would forever be a mystery to him why she took such interest in seducing the men of the house. She had only tried it on him once, years earlier, and had been so frightened of Constance's reaction when she found out that that she'd never attempted it again.

Tate crossed the house and climbed the stairs to Violet's floor. He could hear music playing – music that he liked – and knocked on the wood softly.

She opened it so quickly he wondered if she had been waiting for him.

"You shouldn't be here," she said unconvincingly.

"You shouldn't listen to my private confessional with Pastor Harmon," Tate said with a smirk. "Patient-Doctor confidentiality and all that. I could have you arrested."

Violet snorted and opened the door wider, turning back into her room. A book lay open on the floor where she had been reading it; she sat down and shut the spine. Tate closed the door.

"Nice work with the room. Looks good," he said, examining her posters and bedspread. She had already unpacked all of her boxes – it was obvious she had little to do here but spend time in her room.

"Do you know this house?" She asked.

"Oh, yeah, I was friends with the people who lived here before you."

"The couple that killed themselves?"

He glanced back at her and came to sit on the floor in front of where she sat. "Yeah. Gay couple. Visited them here a few times." He glanced at her wrists, covered in another of her oversized jumpers. She cleared her throat, and he snapped back to meet her gaze.

"What you saw yesterday-"

"It's cool, I didn't tell your dad. Wouldn't want Doctor Harmon knowing his daughter's a little fuck up."

"I'm not a fuck up," Violet snapped. "You don't know anything about my life. You're the psycho patient, not me."

Tate laughed, and Violet calmed down a little. "Fair enough, sorry. I used to do it too, you know."

She looked at him curiously. "Really?"

Tate lifted his wrist and pulled down his sweater. "This one I did after my dad left, I was…ten, I think," he said, pointing at the scars that were barely visible anymore.

Violet paused before lifting her own arm. Her cuts were brighter, and there were more of them. He felt that uncomfortable lump in his throat at the sheer magnitude of scars fading on her arm. "Last week, first day at my new school," she said, mimicking his casual tone. "Sucks."

"Westfield, right?" For a moment a bloodied image of the school logo appeared in his vision, the memory of brain matter splattered across a student diary. "The worst. I got thrown out of there." He smirked.

"I hate it there," Violet blurted. "I hate everyone, all their boushee designer bullshit." She said the word like a child might say it – cursing because it expressed her anger better, but without the careless familiarity of an adult swearing. "East Coast was much cooler. I mean, at least we had weather."

"I love it when the leaves change."

"Yeah, me too!"

Tate let out a little laugh and stood up, turning away. He hadn't seen her smile before. The innocence of it almost broke his heart.

"Why'd you move here?" he asked with his back to her.

"My dad had an affair," she replied coolly. "My mom literally caught him in the act."

Tate felt a sudden rush of anger for the fatherly, reasonable Doctor Harmon. Who was he to lecture him on being a better person when he was willing to throw away his whole family to get laid? He reached for the chalk underneath the blackboard on her wall.

"That's horrible," he said honestly. Violet looked surprised at his fervor. "If you love someone, you should never hurt them – never." he clarified. He turned back to the blackboard and wrote the nickname Thaddeus had given him – TAINT.

"Right?" She said with a bitter smile, "I know. And the worst part is that six months earlier my mom had this brutal miscarriage. The baby was seven months old and we had to have this macabre funeral." He turned to look at her with sympathy. "Have you ever seen a baby coffin?"

He moved to sit in front of her again. Violet's callousness fascinated him. She couldn't be older than thirteen – had all she'd seen in her parents jaded her already to the world? He reached for her hand, holding it gently, stroking the red slits with his fingertips.

"I'm sorry." He anticipated her shock, had already released her hand when she stood up.

"Why are you seeing my dad?" she asked, changing the subject abruptly.


	2. Chapter 2

Tate felt a flicker of irritation. "Don't ask questions you already know the answer to. You're smarter than that."

She paused, and then smiled again nervously, and Tate softened. It had been a long time since he had last dealt with someone that didn't feign interest just to manipulate him.

"Wanna listen to Morrisey? He's cool, and pissy, and he hates everyone and everything."

It struck him that she was attempting to impress him, and something in the girlish eagerness made his heart swell. "Got any Kurt Cobain on that thing?" he asked, motioning to the unfamiliar ipod device. She giggled.

"What are you doing in here?"

The happiness of a moment ago splintered. He had been so absorbed in the light of her, so entranced by this strange little creature that he hadn't even noticed Ben Harmon's approach.

"We're just listening to music, Dad," said Violet, and Tate noted with pleasure the same disappointed irritation in her voice that he felt.

"Tate, I'm sorry, you shouldn't be here and I think you know that, please-" Ben motioned to the door.

Tate got up slowly, anger coloring his cheeks. Ben Harmon, cheater, liar, cockblocker. He should rip out his throat with his hands. He stared the man down at the door.

"What's that thing you think I'm afraid of? Fear of rejection?" he snarled, and felt a twisted pleasure at the impact of the words on his psychiatrist's face. He stormed into the hall, and stiffened when he heard Ben yell at Violet. She'd done nothing wrong! He was exactly like all fathers – cruel, violent! Tate thundered down the stairs, slamming his hand on the bannister.

Moira met him at the basement, admonishing him for the sound, but Tate shoved past her angrily. "Fuck off."

She had endured far worse in the years they had been friends.

"He's only concerned for his daughter. A mental patient with homicidal leanings is hardly a desirable match." She said reasonably, polishing a spoon.

Tate kicked a rotting wooden crate through the dust of the floor. "He's a fucking animal. I'm going to string him from the fucking roof."

Moira sighed. "Tate."

He turned to look at her, turning in an instant from rage to calculation.

"I need you to do something for me."

Even her glass eye stared at him with suspicion.

"The great father, Ben Harmon the fucking hero. I need you to see if he's still the asshole he was when they left. Violet said her mom had a miscarriage and that's why he cheated – go see if he'd still do it even here, after they moved."

Moira observed him for a moment, still breathing hard and quivering with rage, and with a sigh agreed.

"He's having a shower upstairs. I'll wait for him in the other room," she acquiesced, and disappeared.

Tate paced the basement silently. He could hear Thaddeus whimpering in a corner, and kicked the bones of a rat at the shivering figure next to the radiator. "Not now." He snapped.

Moira reappeared some minutes later, buttoning up her blouse. For a second she appeared to him as her younger self, but when he blinked it was the aged woman that he knew, straightening her hair once more into a bun.

"He's touching himself in his room right now. Dirty bastard." She said without preamble.

Tate smirked.

"Of course he is. Doesn't care that his daughter is in the house, mighty Ben Harmon."

Moira smoothed out her dress and considered Tate. "What do you intend to do about him?"

He grinned back at her. "I've got a few ideas."

~:~:~

Later in the afternoon Tate had Moira try Ben's self-restraint once more. They waited together until Violet came downstairs, and while Moira seduced him in the study, Tate quietly whispered at Violet to visit her father. It was a wonderful thing that the dead could influence the living so, Tate thought, enough that they could tamper with the subconscious. Invisible, he held her hand and led her to the study.

They rounded the corner and Tate smirked at the expression on her face at the sight of the aged Moira mounting her father. He felt the surge of satisfaction at Ben's frantic rush to the door, screaming Violet's name. Moira was readjusting herself again, and Tate nodded to her. She rolled her eyes and picked up her cleaning supplies, brushing past the furious Ben and disappearing in the hall. Tate followed.

~:~:~

Tate sat on the bed and watched Violet get ready for school the next morning. He watched her re-bandage her arms, looked on curiously as she picked out three layers of sweaters to wear to cover herself up. He loved her little frame, the soft dimples in her shoulder blades when she lifted her arms, the gentle, not-yet-womanly curve of her back. It seemed such a pity to him that she covered it up under so many layers of fabric, as if hiding herself from the world through her clothes.

He liked that she spent only minutes on her hair and wore hardly any makeup. She barely even glanced at her face – too used to the reflection, with no desire to change. He envied her ability to accept herself for who she was. Tate had never known what it was to be content in his own skin.

The house seemed terribly lonely when she was gone. It felt as though the last decade had passed in a blur of days, and only now did he notice or care for the passing of time. For an entire hour he sat in the kitchen while Vivien puttered around making some organic mess of a meal, watching the clock as though it were a wild animal about to strike.

The door opened, and he rose at the same moment Vivian did. His eyes flicked instantly to the angry weal on Violet's forehead, which she had attempted to cover with a hat. He was by her side in a moment, coming dangerously close to visibility in his urgency.

She was brave, his Violet. He watched as she quietly allowed her mother to fix up her head, waiting until he could follow her to her room. She threw her bag on the floor and ripped off her hat, betraying for the first time just how angry she was. He felt an unfamiliar swell of pride. Of course she wouldn't cry or get upset. She was like him – she'd be angry. He moved backwards, out through her door again, and knocked softly.

She opened the door with thinly veiled irritation, evidently expecting her mother. Her eyes widened. "Tate? Did mom let you in here?"

Tate grinned back at her. "No, I snuck in through a downstairs window. Happy to see me?"

Violet smiled. "Sure. Not the worst part of today, at least."

"I can see that. What happened to your head?" he kept his voice as light as her own.

"There's these three bitches at school, they attacked me in the cafeteria. For like the third day in a row." Her face was dark, reminding him once more of his own anger. He sat in the aged armchair next to her bed, letting her pace freely.

"Why do they do it?" he asked.

"Some bullshit rule about smoking in the school. I got on the girl's bad side my first day. She keeps finding me smoking and trying to make me eat the lit cigarette. They do that shit to torture fucking terrorists! Since when does that happen at school?" she vented.

"Did you fight back?" he asked, feeding off her fury.

"Obviously. I burnt her hand." Tate grinned savagely at her shaking form.

"That's my girl."

Violet smacked her hand on the drawers. "I hate her! I just want to kill her!"

"Then do it!" Tate said eagerly. "One less high school bitch making the lives of the less fortunate more intolerable is in my opinion a public service." She didn't reply, and he remembered that while murder seemed such an easy solution to him others might not think it the case. He softened. "Look, you want her to leave you alone, stop making your life a living hell, short of killing her there's only one solution. Scare her. Make her afraid of you."

"How?" She was listening, and Tate quickly formulated a plan. Scaring bullies tended to run in his family.

"She's a cokehead," Violet countered, on hearing his idea. "I don't have coke."

"You won't need any! It's just an excuse to get her here. After that she'll leave empty handed and terrified, and I promise you, she'll never bother you again."

He had her now, he knew, and she considered him seriously for a few seconds.

"How am I gonna terrify her?"

Tate smiled at his willing protégé. 'That's where I come in.'

~:~:~

Once he'd left Violet to prepare for the morning he went to the basement to recruit Thaddeus. He found him making a hat from a decomposing raccoon.

"Thad, I've brough you a steak," he sang, handing the dripping meat to the little creature. Thaddeus clawed at it happily.

"First I need you to promise me something. Thad, pay attention. Tomorrow, I'm bringing a girl down here. She's a bad girl, Thad, a bad girl like those boys that came down here and tried to hit you with bats. You remember?"

Thaddeus nodded, staring distractedly at the steak's trail of blood trickling down Tate's arms.

"I need you to scare her. Not to eat her, and don't kill her either, we don't want her staying in the house. Just scare her until she cries. Can you do that for me, Thad?" the macabre ghost nodded eagerly, and Tate handed him the steak with a pat.

"Who's there? Charles, is that you?"

Tate looked up, and concern crossed his face. "Nora," he called softly.

The gentle-eyed woman stepped uncertainly from the shadows.

"Who are you?"

"Nora, it's me, Tate." He stood and walked to her, taking her hands in his own. She looked at him, bewildered and frightened, and he wanted to cry. She had been so wonderful lately, had remembered where she was and who he was to her for weeks now. Foolishly, he'd let himself pretend that this progress was permanent.

"Tate? I..I don't know a Tate. Where's my baby? Have you seen him?"

Tate glanced at Thaddeus sternly. The little white figure retreated under a rotting chair, quietly sucking on his steak.

"Your baby..your baby got sick, Nora. Very sick. I tried to get you a new one and it..it ended badly. I'm sorry."

Her pretty face contorted with sadness; tears welled in her eyes. His heart hurt for her, as it always did when he had to tell her that her child had passed. His true mother, his guardian angel – all he had ever wanted was give her what she asked.

"I want my baby," she cried, collapsing into his shoulder. "My baby, I want, my…" he held her tightly, running his hand through her soft curls. He felt tears on his own face.

"Nora," he murmured.

"Tate?" she pulled back, and he saw recognition once more in her eyes. "Where have you been? Did you get me my baby?"

He couldn't bear to disappoint her – not twice in one afternoon.

"I'm getting it for you Nora. I'll give you a baby."

Her cheeks flushed with joy, her eyes taking on that giddy brightness that he so craved. "Oh, Tate! My beautiful boy-" and she embraced him once more.

He left her in the basement, a smile still on her face, and rushed to the attic with single-minded determination.

Where was the suit?

He gasped and searched through the rest of the attic, in case the Harmons had moved it whilst unpacking. Where had they put it? He'd left it hanging in the same place for months.

He searched the house, stopping only once to glare at Ben Harmon as he walked by. He noticed the Burning Woman standing in the corner; he'd never paid much attention to her before.

"You should go after him," he said to her with a cruel smile.

"I need somebody to feel my pain," she said softly, her skin hissing as it smoldered.

"Make him feel it. He's a cheater, as bad as your husband. Make him pay."

She looked at him, then back at Ben. Tate grinned and left her with him in the hallway.

He found the rubber suit stuffed into a garbage can just at the edge of the property. It made him feel sick just to step that far away from the house, and he retreated quickly back to the bathroom to put it on. Its slick insides felt eerily familiar. The Tate of two years ago, that had killed two men with no compunction, seemed to have left a part of himself inside the suit. He smiled at himself in the mirror as he slid the latex mask over his face.

Vivien was in her room, readying herself for the evening. He stood and watched her rubbing organic body lotion on her legs. He pushed the door a little to get her attention. She gasped, and then laughed in surprise.

"Hot. I thought I told you to throw that thing away?"

He ignored her banter, waiting. He knew how people reacted to the suit, had watched it work on the gays years before.

"You really want to go for round two, huh? Come on, I can be kinky." He watched her strip off her shirt without interest. She meant nothing to him, Vivian Harmon. He loathed her husband and adored her daughter, but she was nothing more than a pawn to him, a vessel. He waited.

The thing itself was done without fanfare. He looked into her wide eyes, so similar to Violet's, and allowed himself to get lost in the fantasy of her. Of course, if it were really her, he'd do far better. He'd be softer and gentler and make her feel like a goddess. Vivian didn't deserve any of that. She was a whore who forgave a man that cheated on her. She didn't need to be taken care of.

He finished quickly and left the room, left her panting on the bed. Despite his cool detachment, he found it hard to look at himself in the mirror when he removed the suit. A voice that had long been dormant inside of him fought to the surface – _what would Violet say? _He forced the thought back angrily. Nora needed him. It was done now.


	3. Chapter 3

Tate felt anxious all of the next morning, waiting for Violet to return home with the bully from school. Again and again he coached Thaddeus on what to expect, sternly warning him to stay away from the girl with the light hair and only go for the other. Thaddeus nodded patiently, sated by the carcass of a chicken that Tate had stolen for him from the kitchen bin, but after a while became irritable with Tate's constant admonishments and went to dissect rats beneath the stairs.

At last he heard Violet, and ushering Thaddeus into the shadows he placed himself in the middle of the room. He waited, listening to Violet's soft footsteps behind those of the other girl. He examined her curiously as she crossed into the room – tall, beautiful, with wide eyes and long hair. He would have hated her face even if she'd never touched Violet.

"So this is the coke whore," he said in his creepiest voice.

"What the fuck is this?"

Tate looked up at Violet, proud of the fierce excitement in her eyes. "Hit the lights."

And Thaddeus took over.

When they were younger, years after Nora had shown him how to control Thaddeus and Tate became a ghost himself, he and Thad learned a wondrous secret. With careful practice over time, they learned that they could switch forms with one another, flawlessly and, if necessary, instantaneously. They only ever tried when they needed to frighten someone, and liked to 'dress' as one another for Halloween. On such occasions, they referred to their joint selves as the Infantata.

Tate theorized that it was only possible because of Thad's nature – he was a Frankenstein creature of borrowed body parts and pilfered organs, so stealing the form of another was hardly that great a stretch. He had tried it with Moira, but she had a fit of anger when she realized that he just wanted to see what having boobs was like that she didn't speak to him for a week.

From the chair he felt the familiar rush of adrenaline that accompanied the change of form. He let his body spasm, his own vision flickering between his position on the chair and Thaddeus' view of the girls from the darkness near the stairs. In an instant it was complete, and in the harsh strobe from the fluorescent overhead, which the twins were gleefully switching on and off, he saw Thaddeus rise in his body, lunging at the other girl.

Tate was glad of the lights when he saw Thaddeus' concentration drop and slip out of form; the flash of brightness illuminating his tortured white form for only a moment. "Thaddeus, swap!" Tate called, so only the other ghosts could hear him.

In a second Tate was on top of the bully as she screamed and writhed beneath him. His fingers weaved through the hair at the nape of her neck, wound around her throat. Tate let himself fantasize briefly about snapping her neck in two.

Violet screamed and Tate spun around. Thaddeus, once again in Tate's body, had thrown her to the ground, and was now crawling towards her, forgetting himself again and allowing his own deformed figure to show. In the light Tate saw Violet's face contort with fear, and flinging himself off of the other girl he dragged Thaddeus forcibly into the shadows, before sprinting back to the chair.

Violet found the light, and the whole grisly scene became apparent. For a moment the dark haired girl writhed on the ground, hands over her head. Tate realized that either himself or Thaddeus must have gouged her face with the Infantata's claws – in the mayhem he couldn't remember who it had been.

The girl raced for the door and thundered up the stairs, and Violet rushed after her. "Wait!" she screamed, and the note of mindless fear in her voice frightened Tate. He followed her, leaning against the door with feigned nonchalance.

"I don't think she'll be following you anymore," he said, forcing a grin.

Violet turned on him, and there were tears in her eyes. "What was that?" she screamed at him.

Tate felt himself switch into liar's mode. In the corner of his eye, the Bloodied Other watched from the shadows. "What are you talking about?" he asked sincerely. "She kneed me in the balls and got away. She must have run into a wall or something."

It wasn't working. Violet was stronger than her father, of course she was – she could see through him like glass.

"No, I saw something," she said, the note of panic rising in her voice.

"What are you talking- Violet, you're talking crazy, this is cool! We showed that bitch!" he stepped toward her, wanting to reach out and hold her, desperate for that look of terror to be replaced with admiration. She stepped back from him.

"Get out," she snarled, and it felt like a punch in the stomach. "I never want to see you again!" He stepped forward instinctively and she threw him backwards, the sheer force of the push sending him staggering back. There was no hint of the vulnerable little Violet that listened to music and liked the leaves in autumn that he thought he knew.

She fell back, staring at him only a moment more, and turned and raced up the stairs. Every nerve in his body screamed at him to run after her, that if he let her leave he'd never see her again. The Bloodied Other stood silently to the side of his vision, his very shadow an insult to Tate. He'd done as she asked! Wasn't this what she wanted? Constance or Nora would have been proud if he'd done the same for them!

"I THOUGHT YOU WEREN'T AFRAID OF ANYTHING!" he bellowed after her, as the door slammed above him.

He waited, but there was nothing. He heard her sprint upstairs and listened to the faint sound of her bedroom door slamming shut, and a cold hollowness gripped him. What had he done?

He felt Thaddeus sniveling near his feet, heard the long tongue licking the girl's blood from his nails with delight. In an instant Tate turned and kicked him as hard as he possibly could, directly in the face. The sobbing scream he got in return didn't help nearly enough with the agony of loneliness rippling through his chest.


	4. Chapter 4

A brief note:

Thank you so much for all your kind comments! Having taken such a long break from any sort of writing it's amazing to have such encouragement to return to.

The initial part of the American Horror Story follows Tate and Violet so closely that there is little space for creative interpretation, but in coming chapters I'll be able to explore some themes that weren't in shown in the series. Stay tuned!

Please feel free to leave comments and suggestions. I'm open to any ideas or critiques you may have.

Thanks again!

~:~:~

For Tate, the days without Violet were longer and more tortuous than any he had known before. He felt as though at last he was committing a real haunting – dogging her shadow, following her through the halls of the great house, sitting beside her on the bed while she slept.

The other ghosts were steering clear of him, as they had learnt to do whenever his face darkened and his eyes held that manic glint. He wouldn't admit to himself that the reason he hadn't come back to try again with Violet was because of his terrible fear that she would send him away again. Ben Harmon might be an adulterous idiot, but in just one session he'd managed to target that one thing that terrified Tate above all else – the rejection of people he cared about.

He said nothing in therapy sessions now, just sat and stared stonily at the man's pleasant face, imagining how it might look with an axe wound, scratch marks, or with the eyes gouged out.

Ben did not operate so well without Tate's eager diatribe of feverish confessions to fill the silence. The encouraging smile on Ben Harmon's face became a little fixed; he fell to glancing at the clock and twitching in his seat. Tate watched him curiously, letting the silence drag on.

Ben's phone rang suddenly, dispelling the building darkness, and Tate enjoyed the look on Ben's face as his professional mask slipped.

"Sorry," said Ben, hanging up the phone.

"So," said Tate softly. "What do shrinks think about when a wildly brilliant patient doesn't talk to punish said psychiatrist? I bet you think about sex."

Guilt and fear were such common expressions on Ben's face that Tate wasn't remotely surprised to see them there once more. He composed himself. "Do you think about sex a lot?"

Tate leant back, preparing his attack. "I think about one girl in particular. Your daughter." He paused, enjoying the twitching vein in Ben's neck, the tightening of his jaw. "I jerk off thinking about her." Ben swallowed. "A lot."

"I'm not comfortable with you talking about my daughter, Tate."

"Don't you want to know what I'd do to her?" Tate leant forward, enjoying Ben's discomfort. "I'd lay her down on the bed and I'd caress her soft skin. Make her purr like a little kitten."

He felt cross with himself. That sounded perfectly pleasant, not menacing at all. Even to taunt Ben he couldn't seem to fantasize about hurting Violet in the slightest. "She's a virgin," he tried again. "They get wet _so_ easily."

"Do you turn to these thoughts to comfort yourself in times of stress?" Ben's professional mask slammed back down.

"Actually yes. I jerk off a lot to make the visions go away. The blood, and the carnage-" He glanced at the corner, where the Bloodied Other stood. He treated therapy as such a storytelling exercise that he had come to expect the Other in every session he had with Ben. "I want the thoughts to go away, and you're not helping me."

"We've only been working together a few weeks now."

Tate smiled and leant back into his chair. "You're sexual, right?" Fucking adulterer. "Violet told me about the affair with the girl in Boston. Not much older than her, she said." He was rewarded with a flash of pain in Ben's eyes. It must keep him up at night, wondering what Violet thought of him after he had sex with a college girl.

"Our time's up." Ben's voice was unsteady, and Tate's smile widened.

"Bullshit. I don't accept that."

"Our time is up for today, Tate."

Tate licked his lips and studied the shrink. So that was his trigger? Not Tate's fantasies about his own daughter, no, it took the fear of a stranger knowing about his embarrassing affair to really push Ben Harmon over the edge. Priorities, priorities. Tate rose and sauntered from the room.

Two days later Constance visited Tate in the back door hallway.

"You look tired," she said softly, reaching to stroke his face. He felt exhausted, but didn't bother to agree.

"Why are you here?"

"Here to give that Harmon woman a little treat," said Constance, proudly holding up a little plate of muffins. "You know her failure of a husband said that he's not comfortable treating you any longer, because of your 'fantasies' for that Plain Jane daughter of his?"

Tate smirked. "Did he really?"

"Oh, Tate," Constance admonished indulgently. "You really shouldn't give the man such grief." She paused, looking at the muffins. "You don't…you don't really have those fantasies about that woeful girl, do you my love?"

Tate glared at her. "Stay out of it, Constance. You can't do this every time there's a new girl. I haven't forgotten what you did to Moira that time."

Constance's lips pursed. "That bitch had what was coming to her, Lord knows. First my husband, then my son? She's lucky she's not still getting stuffed into the fireplace." A cupboard door slammed in the kitchen, and Constance sighed. "I really must go, my boy. But stay away from that Violet girl, I don't like the look of her."

She leaned in for a kiss, but Tate had disappeared into the shadows.

That evening Moira came down into the basement, fuming from an altercation with Constance.

"Humiliating me in front of the Harmons, as if I'm nothing!" she spat, angry tears in her eyes. "I've never done anything to her. Not one thing. Her filthy husband – filthy goddamned rapist – where is he to pay for his sins? Not here! Not buried in the yard!"

Tate watched her silently. Most of Constance's visits ended with scenes like this one.

There was a strange sound upstairs, and Tate silenced Moira quickly. "What was that?"

They paused, listening to the rush of feet and a scuffle upstairs. Tate and Moira looked at one another in consternation, and with a nod rose upstairs in an instant.

Tate peered around the corner into the living room, and felt his heart leap into his throat. Three people were standing in front of Violet and her mother, and they had them seated in chairs. One of them was holding a knife at Vivien.

As Tate watched the man lunged at Violet, ripping her dress and yelling at her to take her clothes off. For an instant, Tate's vision blurred with white-hot fury, and he leapt toward the man, teeth bared. That someone other than he should touch her, hurt her-!

He had forgotten Moira until he felt her whole body pin him back against the wall. "Tate, wait. They could hurt her in the scuffle. Think about this for a second. We need to get them away from Violet and the mistress, or they could be harmed. I'll get the others. Bring them to the basement."

He nodded, his jaw set fiercely, ignoring the blood roaring in his ears.

He watched Violet rise at their command, saw her eyes flicker around the room briefly. He wanted to run to her, to steal her away. His brave girl, not a tear in sight, too fierce for anything but fighting back.

In an instant he saw her throw herself forward and smack one of the attackers in the head with her own skull. Her mother kicked out from the chair, toppling the male, while the two women scrambled after her. Violet was fast – she sprinted for the kitchen, and Tate leapt forward. In one swift move he had his hand over her mouth and had pulled her back into the shadows of the kitchen.

She stopped struggling the moment she knew it was him, and he released her mouth. "Tate, they're trying to kill me and my mom," she whispered frantically. He tried to ignore the way that her hands were clinging to his waist, the urgency in her fingertips against sweater. This was not the time!

"You need to get them into the basement," he said, fighting to keep his voice low and steady.

"What the hell are you talking about?" she hissed, hysteria rising in her voice. He shook her to calm her down.

"The basement!" He insisted, holding her face close to his own so she could see his eyes. "Just do it."

They heard the running footsteps of one of the attackers race into the kitchen, and it took every ounce of strength Tate had to pull back from her, to leave her standing alone against the wall. He pressed himself against the door, and as the other woman entered the room he crossed to the basement, with no time to wonder if Violet had seen him disappear.

The twins and Moira were waiting. They'd dragged the old tub that stood in the corner to the center of the room and filled it with water.

"They're recreating the Home Invasion murders. They're going to drown Violet and stab Vivian," said Moira, crossing over to him quickly.

"I've told Violet to get them downstairs. Have Gladys get in the tub to frighten her so we can get her. I need to go back and see that the crazy bitch doesn't stab Violet. Be ready for us." Reaching underneath the work bench that ran along the back wall, Tate grabbed the old axe that lay on the bottom shelf and gripped it tightly.

He stepped up into the upstairs bathroom. They'd dressed Violet in some sort of crudely cut nurses' uniform. She was studying her would-be murderer with calculated eyes.

"The one he used is in the basement,' she was saying. "We totally remodeled this bathroom."

"You think I'm gonna fall for that?" demanded the other woman, uncertainty coloring her tone.

Violet smirked. "It's a grimy, claw-foot tub, with a chrome faucet. Go and look."

Tate resisted the urge to cross the floor and hug her. Clever, brave girl! Of course the only thing that could upset these psychopaths was the idea that their beautiful recreation could be wrong.

The woman glared at her, then back at the shiny tub. Violet watched her, the mask of total calm shifting only slightly when the woman turned away. "Bianca!" she yelled into the hall. "We're going downstairs. They've moved the tub – this isn't the right one."

She turned on Violet again and dragged her from the water by the crook of her elbow. "Let's go," she snarled. Violet kept her grin steady.

Tate made to follow them, when he heard the sickly sound of the other girl retching in the other room. Violet would be alright until she got to the basement, at least – he had a few moments. He moved around the door and watched the girl vomiting in a tub.

"You guys?" she called out unsteadily, rising to her feet. "Fiona? I think..I need to go to the hospital. Maybe we could come back later and finish this?" she moved toward the bathroom, and Tate followed, allowing her to see him for just a moment.

"Hey," she called out uncertainly, looking at the water still running in the bath. "Where'd you guys go?"

He moved behind her, watching her labored steps, hating the stench of sick on her. He gripped the axe tighter in his hands as he approached.

She turned toward him, and he lunged, all the force of his body connecting with her stomach as the axe splintered through flesh and bone. Distantly, he heard her gurgle of pain. He ripped the axe back out and struck once more.

Blood gushed from the wounds, and the girl doubled over, her throat retching again as she attempted to clutch her sides. Tate watched her for only a moment longer before crossing to the basement again.

He arrived as Violet did, heard her soft steps on the stairs. She was in leading the woman with a knife to her back, and from this angle Tate could see the desperation and fear in her eyes.

"You'd better not be messing with me," said the woman, poking the knife at her. Violet winced and moved forward.

"It's down here," she said confidently, but he knew that look. The terror that Tate might have let her down. He marveled at the trust it had taken just to come down to the basement on his rushed instructions. "Around the corner."

Tate nodded at the twins, who hit the lights once more. In an instant he had his arms around Violet, dragging her backward into the safety of the darkness where Moira waited protectively. He left her there, moving into the center of the room next to the tub in an instant.

The other woman was yelling. "Where are you?"

"Over here, you stupid bitch," he called out callously.

She turned, following his voice and the light that filtered through the window. Tate winked at Gladys, who lay just beneath the water.

"I've already filled it with water for you," he said softly. He grinned as the woman approached; saw the dawning horror on her face at the prone, swollen figure in the tub. He glanced up at Moira, who stood rigid with her hands hovering just over Violet's shoulders, and nodded at her. Moira leant over and whispered softly in Violet's ear, and in a moment Violet was sprinting back up the stairs to safety, leaving them alone with the woman in the basement.

He nodded back at Gladys, who on cue rose suddenly from the water, fixing her gaze on the terrified woman.

"You want to see a real murder, do you?" he asked menacingly. She looked at him frantically, backing away towards the stairs.

There was a flurry of claws and fangs, and Thaddeus was there, shredding through the woman's soft skin and delicate veins in a moment. Blood spurted from the torn arteries, and the woman collapsed, the little white shape of Thaddeus still clinging to her neck with his long teeth.

Moira stepped over to Tate and the still-writhing woman, wringing her hands. "The mistress and the little one have fled, I heard run out the front. You know, I really thought it would be one of us that frightened them away in the end. I never imagined it'd be a living human after all."

Tate felt the terrible hollowness return. "They're just frightened," he said quickly. "They'll be back. They're calling the cops."

Moira looked up at him cautiously, and wisely held her tongue. "There's one more of those people still alive upstairs."

Tate looked down at the woman. Her blood was cooling on the tiles, her body still at last. Thaddeus was chuckling at the red patterns he was drawing with his fingers on the floor. Tate found that he was suddenly terribly tired.

"Coerce him into coming down here, and Thad will finish him off," he said to Moira, brushing a hand over his eyes. His head was hurting him. "Gladys, would you…"

"Already with you," the rotund nurse said cheerfully, wringing the water from her hair. "Maria?" she called. "Come help me with this last one."

The delicate young woman peered around the corner, and Tate almost wretched at the site of her old stab wounds. He had seen enough blood for one evening.

He waited by the window while Thaddeus finished off the last murderer. Neither Vivian or Violet had reappeared on the path outside. He wondered where they had run to. His mother's house?

As if reading his mind, Moira stepped behind him. "I've called your mother over. She'll know what to do with the bodies."

She and Tate turned to examine the man on the floor, his blood pooling on the tiles above his head.

"Jesus H Christ," came the soft, familiar Virginian drawl several minutes later. Constance moved to stand behind Tate. "Was this your handiwork?" she added contemptuously.

"No," Tate was deadpan. He had no time for Constance's bullshit today.

"It was them," interjected Moira softly.

The blood was making wet, heavy sound as it oozed from the dead woman's ear. Tate felt bile rising in his throat. "We have to get rid of the bodies," he said quickly, "If you want him to keep treating me."

Moira sighed. "I'll get the shovel. You get the bleach."


	5. Chapter 5

The Harmons had returned by the next afternoon. While the adults looked as shell-shocked as Tate felt, Violet had already returned to normal. They didn't send her to school that day, and Tate spent the morning watching her play CDs and write in her journal.

It took him all afternoon to muster the courage to appear at her door. He leant against the frame and waited for her to look up, pushing the pile of the carpet anxiously from side to side with the toe of his shoe.

He heard the sudden clatter of Violet dropping her headphones, and looked up to meet her gaze. She wasn't frightened – her features had transformed with a joy that made his heart thunder.

"Tate," she said, her voice breaking slightly. Any ideas he'd held of a clever comment flew out the window. He smiled gently.

"How's my girl?"

She rose, one hand on the bedspread to steady herself.

"I need to…to say…you saved my life, Tate. Me and my mom's. How..how did you know to be there?"

"I had come to see you," said Tate slowly. He'd spent the night formulating a believable cover story. "I wanted to apologize and make up for the other day, but the door was ajar and I thought that was weird. Then I heard people yelling and just sort of ran inside, I guess. I don't really remember much of it." He had moved into the room, shutting the door behind him. He didn't need Ben Harmon repeating the disaster of last week and ruining this pretty moment.

Violet hugged her arms to her chest. "I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't been there, Tate."

He couldn't bear to stand so far from her and watch her in such pain. He crossed the room swiftly, putting his arms around her shoulders. She stood stiffly for a moment, then relented, pressing her face against his chest with a little sigh. Tate was in transports of delight.

"Don't think about it, Vi. You were brave – you survived. You would have been just fine on your own. You kicked ass back there!" he pulled away, lifting her head gently with the palms of his hands to meet his own. He made faces at her until she laughed and pulled away.

"Help me sort through this space junk that the last owners left behind," she said, jumping back on to the bed and crossing her legs. Tate followed, allowing the change of subject. It felt eerily familiar to be invited back onto his own bed, and without realizing it he fell instinctively into his old lounging pose – lying on his stomach, one hand under his chin, his ankles twined over the edge of the mattress. If Violet was uncomfortable with his adopting such a close proximity, she didn't mention it.

They spent the afternoon sorting through the forgotten things of the previous tenants. Tate made up ridiculous stories about each item to make Violet laugh. He loved the sound, craved it. He watched with satisfaction her as the walls she'd carefully constructed began to crack; this solitary girl letting herself enjoy the company of another for perhaps the first time in her short life.

At six her mother called her to dinner, and Violet looked at Tate nervously. "You'd better go," she said with reluctance.

Tate had forgotten that time still passed for her. It angered him that the minutes seemed to race by whenever they were together, then linger with maddening slowness whenever she was away from him at school.

"Will you be alright getting out without them seeing you?" she asked.

Tate winked, pulling himself off the bed. "Same time tomorrow, kid," he said with a knowing grin, crossing to the door and slipping from the room silently. He waited for her to leave the room, before stepping back inside and taking a seat on the worn armchair to wait for her return to bed. Watching her sleep had become so routine he barely stopped to question its weirdness any longer. It was the most peaceful time of his day.

~:~:~

Violet didn't return to school at all that week and her parents, frightened and incapable of breaking down her solid attitude of controlled calm, didn't have the backbone to make her go. They spent some mornings in her room, and others they ventured outside, whenever Ben Harmon was with patients or busy in his study – watching college porn, Tate surmised.

He liked showing Violet around the house, rediscovering his favorite haunts through her eyes, enjoying her reactions to the hidden annexes and forgotten little corners of the mansion. That guarded side of her was swiftly disappearing, and they spoke easily about how she had felt on learning what her father had done back in Boston; how truly frightened she had felt since the invasion, what she thought of her mother's miscarriage.

When she spoke she used her hands in little unconscious gestures. Tate found himself studying her as he listened, tracing her movements through the soft haze of afternoon sunlight. It surprised him how much he seemed to care for these insignificant traits – how her hands went to her hair when she was agitated, pulling it into a hasty ponytail and letting it fall to her shoulders again; the way that her eyes squinted a little when she talked about the earlier days of her parents' marriage, before the mess had started.

Their favorite place, although the riskiest, was the little archway in the shade of the mansion, partially hidden from the road by tall trees. It was tucked close enough under the house that Tate could sit comfortably without feeling the compulsion to race back inside, and here they spent the better part of most afternoons, watching flies attack the fruit trees and listening for the infrequent hum of expensive cars rolling down the street.

They had been caught up in an intense argument over the benefits of cassette tapes over CDs when Violet's head snapped up, and she looked hurriedly over her shoulder. Tate slid from the warm brick ledge, melting into the trees on the other side of the archway. Violet ignored his mocking grin as she hastily snubbed her cigarette.

"Relax," came her father's voice. Tate's lip curled in distaste. He had forgotten the extent of his dislike for Ben Harmon since he had been free of his ludicrous therapy sessions. "I'm not here to bust you."

"Why not?" asked Violet suspiciously.

"What you guys went through last week…" Ben trailed off, and Tate suppressed a snort. For a professional shrink, he was painfully out of his depth here.

"Seriously, Dad, I'm fine. It'll make a great college essay someday."

Tate glanced back at Violet's face. He had forgotten that things like college were still on her horizon. Did she even want to go? Would she be so willing to leave?

He made faces to distract her while Ben stammered something about sending her to another psychologist, and giggled silently at her when she had to force back a grin. "Okay, thanks. I'll think about it." She said dismissively. Ben paused, patted her knee and left. Tate waited for the footsteps to subside before peeking around the corner again.

"He's a great dad," Tate said with as much sincerity as he could muster. He knew Violet didn't like it when he went overboard on his dislike for her father. "He really cares. You're lucky like that."

Violet stared at him, then reached for another cigarette and held it in her lips, leaning toward him. He lit it with a grin, his heart skipping a beat or two at the supplication in those wide eyes.

~:~:~

The next day, Vivian took Violet to look at houses. She'd told him the afternoon before about her mother's plan to uproot them all again and find some crappy temporary apartment to stay in before the house could sell.

"Not particularly good at dealing with things, is she, your mom?" he asked. "As if moving house is going to fix the bullshit. It's just dragging that baggage to a new location."

"Exactly," Violet replied. "Don't worry about it though. I'm only going to let her get it out of her system, but I'm telling her that I'm not moving."

Tate glanced up at her, hiding the fear that was suddenly constricting around his heart. "She might find a really nice place, you know. Even the littlest apartments around here are top class. What if she picks somewhere else that you like better?"

Violet didn't look at him, occupying herself with the cigarette in her fingertips. "It's not the house that I care about," she said after a moment. "It's the…extra features that come with it." She glanced up to meet his gaze. Tate forced himself to grin, although his heart was pounding.

"You mean the pasta arm, of course."

Violet giggled. "Obviously. I could never live somewhere that didn't have a pasta arm." She squealed as Tate threw a handful of leaves at her face.


	6. Chapter 6

Constance came to visit while the Harmon ladies were out, bringing Addie for her weekly play date. Tate sat on the floor in the basement with her and Thaddeus and drew cartoon skulls on paper in red and blue crayon.

Constance usually left them alone on these days to poach Vivian's jewelry, but today she lingered by the door, twisting her scarf between her fingers. Tate ignored her for as long as possible, until her nervous shuffling got too irritating to bear.

"Can I help you find your way out?" he asked sweetly.

Constance sighed. "I need you to go back to seeing Ben Harmon," she said. Tate grimaced. He'd known that she would eventually insist on his return, but he had hoped for a few more days of blissful abandon with Violet.

"I doubt he'll see me," he replied sullenly.

Constance laughed, running her hand along the worn doorframe. "I'm sure you'll find a way, my boy. You've quite the talent for manipulation, I know." She gave him a calculating smile, which was not returned.

"Adelaide," she called after a moment. "I'll expect you home by sun down."

Adelaide didn't respond, but when Constance turned her back to go upstairs she poked her tongue at her mother's back, and Thaddeus mimicked her eagerly. Tate laughed aloud and punched her shoulder lightly.

~:~:~

Ben Harmon's office was stifling. Tate felt exactly as though he had been nailed into an elegant coffin to wither and rot.

It was evident that Ben had prepared a little speech to establish his power early in their discussion. Tate stared at the floor and chewed his nails to keep from hitting his shrink over the head with his chair.

"I've agreed to this meeting because we need to clarify a few things. Firstly the psychiatrist that I recommended to you – Doctor Goldman – said that you never showed up for the first appointment, and that you never called to cancel."

Tate sighed deeply, and then gave a sullen little shrug. "I don't want to see anyone but you," he said with difficulty, using the most forlorn voice he knew.

"We have discussed why that won't work," said Ben, "which brings me to my next question. We're very grateful to you, Tate, for how you helped my family, but you need to explain here and now what you were doing in this house at the time of the break in."

Tate felt the storyteller's guise descend upon him. The Bloodied Other had taken up residence in the corner once more since the beginning of their interview.

He repeated the story he'd told Violet, avoiding any eye contact that might detract from the lie. He kept his voice as self-deprecating as possible.

"I understand," said Ben reasonably, when he had finished, "but this is why I can't treat you. It's inappropriate for everyone concerned."

Apparently this was going to be harder than he'd first thought. Tate let out a little sob and waited for the tears to come. He had a beautiful talent for tears, Moira always said scathingly.

"I really need your help!" he pleaded, letting his full eyes meet the shrink's. "I don't wanna be like this. I wanna be a good person, and I know that you can help me." He was in fine form, his voice breaking at just the right moments. "You're the one, okay? You're the only one that I can trust."

He watched with contempt the psychiatrist's professional façade cracking under the swell of his ego.

"I cannot see you in this house," Ben said, his voice softer this time. Tate knew he almost had him. He looked at his shoes, letting his hair fall across his eyes and his shoulders sag – the picture of a lost boy at the end of his tether.

Hopeless cases were like candy to head doctors.

The office was silent for several long moments until Ben sighed, and shuffled the papers in his hands. Tate let out a desolate little sob.

"Look," said Ben, relenting at last. "I have an opening. I'll meet you some place for coffee but you have to promise-"

Tate jerked his head up and he leant toward Ben eagerly. "I promise you, I promise," he said, with all the fervor of a Labrador puppy. "No more weird shit. Okay?" he smiled hopefully, tears still brimming in his eyes. Ben sighed and nodded, and Tate's smile widened just a little.

The only problem now was to work out some way to meet Ben Harmon outside of Murder House.

~:~:~

When Ben walked him to the door at the end of the session, Tate lingered outside for a few minutes longer than usual. Chad and Patrick were standing together, analyzing the tiles on the roof.

With a jolt, Tate realized that it must be Halloween – the squabbling couple rarely found common ground outside of decorating the house each year. Suddenly the problem of his outdoor meeting with Ben was solved.

"If it isn't little loverboy," said Chad sardonically, twirling his sunglasses and examining Tate critically.

Tate smiled humorlessly. "All ready for Halloween, boys? I know how kinky you two get this time of year. I bet thinking about tomorrow night just gets you rock hard, hey Pat?"

Tate laughed as Patrick lunged at him, and Chad dragged him back.

"You know, I think it might be time to try on my favorite costume again, see if it still fits for tomorrow night," Tate continued, crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall. "Wouldn't want to deprive you ladies of the sight of my ass in tight black rubber, now, would I?"

This time it took jumping into the attic to dodge Patrick's swinging fists.

~:~:~

The suit remained folded in the corner of the basement where he'd left it after the…incident…with Vivian. Tate shrank from the memory. Instead, he thought about the faces of the gays when he'd killed them in the rubber suit, the savage pleasure he'd taken from drowning Chad in the water. They'd always irritated him with their constant bickering and nasty little habits. It had been almost a pleasure when he realized that he'd have to kill them if there were any hope of getting Nora another baby.

Familiar footsteps sounded on the stairwell, and the basement light switched on. Tate paused, listening to Violet. He'd lost track of time again – only now did he remember telling her to meet him at midnight. There wasn't time to change out of the clinging suit, but with a sudden flash of inspiration Tate realized how fun it might be to play a little early Halloween trick on Vi.

"Tate?" she called. "You said you wanted to meet at midnight." She moved a little further into the shadows at the bottom of the stairs. "Come out, come out, wherever you are!"

He let himself become visible just as she turned around, and lunging at her managed to stifle her scream with one hand. He held her gently so as not to actually hurt her, pushing her back toward the stairs. He let her struggle for a second longer before letting out the laugh he'd been trying unsuccessfully to suppress.

She gasped, then shoved him hard in the chest. "You asshole!" she said breathlessly, throwing her head back in relief. He pulled off the mask and grinned at her.

"I scared you," he said cheerfully, watching her shivering little form. He liked her like this, it occurred to him suddenly – messy hair, out of breath, that little hitch in her voice as her pulse slowed and the adrenaline wore off.

"No you didn't," she said, though her voice shook. "Where'd you get this thing? My dad threw it out."

He could barely hear her over the thrumming of his heart. "Finders keepers," he said softly. Moving instinctually, he leant down, brushing back her hair with his fingertips. She didn't pull away, and he felt her hot breath on his lips as he pressed his mouth against hers for one perfect moment. He had to force himself to pull away.

"Really, I didn't scare you?" he said, feigning his old casual tone.

"I said no," she said, gazing back up at him with the tiniest little smile, her lips still wet from his own. How did she look so calm? Tate felt as though bombs were going off somewhere in the region of his ribcage.

"I bet I can," he countered. Her eyebrows rose, her disbelief an obvious challenge. Tate grinned. "Give me a second to change into something a little less...shiny."

He turned away and stepped into the darkness, glancing back just in time to catch Violet give a guilty little grin and look hurriedly elsewhere. He would have bet quite a lot of money at that moment that she had been checking out his bum. Tate bit the inside of his lip to stop himself from smiling.

He pulled off the suit at the back of the basemet and put his own clothes back on, then moved to the dilapidated bookcase where he and Thaddeus kept the board games they'd collected over the years. The Ouija Board was gathering dust on the top shelf.

Tate set it up on the floor while Violet watched from the stairs.

"You have to put your fingers on the other side," he said to her.

Violet snorted. "I don't believe in that shit."

Tate grinned. "Charles is is gonna answer all your questions," he added, glancing at the corner where Charles peered at him from the darkness, alerted by the sound of his name. "He used to live here," Tate continued.

Violet rose reluctantly from the stairs and came to sit opposite him. "Is _Charles _goning to tell me what happened to those assholes who tried to kill us? What'd you do to them?"

Tate didn't meet her eyes. He'd hoped that she'd drop the issue.

"I told you, I didn't do anything," he said dismissively. "I had some help."

He reached for her fingers, placed them softly along the board. She stared at his eyes, her suspicions not abating in the slightest.

"What's in this basement?" she demanded. "I want the truth."

Well, that was convenient. There was nothing quite like the truth to stop someone uncovering the lies.

"What I'm about to tell you may scare you. To death." He made his voice as eerie as possible, and Violet pulled her hands away.

He knew Thaddeus was watching from the back corner. The story of his grisly death and rebirth had always been his favorite. He'd made Tate repeat it to him several dozen times over the years. Tate heard him quietly drain the liver of a rat he'd killed and settle down to listen attentively.

He was a brilliant storyteller, and Violet made a wonderful captive audience. Her eyes grew wider and wider as he spoke.

There was a pause when he finished. Tate could hear Thaddeus happily crunching bones between his teeth.

"Oh my god," said Violet.

Tate looked at her, slightly anxiously. Had he said too much?

"You are so full of shit!" Violet laughed scornfully. "I don't believe a word that's come out of your mouth."

Tate sat back, offended.

"Forget it. Forget I ever asked." She rose to her feet impatiently. "And I'm tired, that we keep hanging out in this dark, dank place. Why can't we go somewhere? Like, on a real date?"

Tate's eyes widened. It was as close as she'd ever come to referring to their relationship as more than a vague set of conflicting feelings.

"Alright," he said, rising swiftly to his feet and crossing over to her. "Tomorrow night, we'll go out." He was rewarded with a surprised little smile. The urge to kiss her again surged back, and he gasped aloud when he heard footsteps close overhead.

"Your father agreed to see me again, but I'm not supposed to be here," he said, bringing them back to reality.

Violet grinned and turned toward the stairs. Tate didn't miss the fact that she didn't let go of his hand. "Come on, I'll be your lookout."

He followed her obediently up the stairs.


	7. Chapter 7

Tate waited until Violet was deeply asleep until he slipped out of her room and out the front door. The house was safe for once – the other ghosts had all vacated it by now, the younger ones to tie up loose ends while the others simply took to walking around and enjoying the change in scenery, like travellers stretching their legs after a long flight.

In the early days soon after his death, Tate would spend the entire year waiting impatiently for Halloween, to be free at last from the confines of the mansion. Slowly, this eagerness waned, as his knowledge of the world grew outdated; unfamiliar sites sprang up in the places he'd once known so well. The freedom was enjoyable, of course, but it had its drawbacks. There wasn't all that much one could do in 24 hours. The outside world didn't work like the mansion did; he couldn't just step from one location to another. Getting anywhere of interest either involved a lot of running or finding a car to drive, and even then there was nothing in close proximity worth going to all the effort for.

Moreover, Halloween was the time that Tate felt the most like an actual ghost. Walking so closely amongst the living just highlighted how little he had in common with them: he was truly a dead thing next to their vibrant, living zeal. In the house, it was easy to forget what he was; somehow he and the others functioned almost normally in their 'natural' habitat. Out here, dead lungs didn't quite fill with air, and stale hearts didn't pump blood through his veins, as he learnt with great personal embarrassment when he'd once tried to visit a brothel.

He decided to visit the nearby city, joining the giddy crowds that queued outside foggy night clubs. He picked seedy places where the bouncers didn't bother to check his ID.

Inside the people crowded together, bodies rubbing against one another, the bass of the music throbbing through the floor. Girls in spangly bits of fabric danced wildly, and Tate found himself avoiding them, pressing up against the wall to touch as few people as possible. The smell of alcohol and sweat seemed to be choking him. When a brunette with a dress that barely covered her tits ground up against him, he shuffled out of her reach and bolted to the door.

He left the city, passing several other souls on their way to dig up old memories. It was easy to spot them – clothes that were just a little too out of fashion, always facing downward to attract as little attention as possible. He didn't bother them, or they him.

He visited his old school without really knowing why, using a rock to break through a small window and climb inside. His high school experience had been a non-event. There had always been something in his personality that people found unattractive; girls avoided the sullen, distant boy with messy blonde hair and baggy sweaters like the plague. They didn't exactly bully him – not after he gave one kid a concussion for knocking the books out of his hands on his first day there – but they ignored him, which was somehow almost as bad. He doubted anyone in his class could have remembered his first name, let alone what he looked like.

He wandered aimlessly through the empty halls for a while, listening to the sounds of the building as it settled. A clock at the back of the wall said that it was only 5am. Five hours of freedom, and all he wanted was to get back to the mansion.

Everything that he cared about in the world was inside that house now.

~:~:~

He was early for his meeting with Ben by about an hour. They had agreed on a very public park area with little boutiques and coffee shops – evidently the most innocuous place that Ben could think of to talk to his troubled headcase. Tate sat at a bench and watched the children in their Halloween getup. It crossed his mind, briefly, how easy it would be to steal one of these toddlers away and give it to Nora. Somehow, the idea that such a thing would make Violet angry was enough to drive it from his mind.

Ben arrived late, and Tate was intrigued to see dark circles under the shrink's eyes. Had the Burning Woman been keeping him up more than usual? Tate rarely gave a moment's thought to Ben or Vivian's lives.

"You look like you could use a coffee," he said pleasantly. It felt nice to be surrounded by so much activity for once; he couldn't quite maintain the brooding persona he usually adopted for Ben's benefit.

The psychiatrist nodded tiredly, running a hand through his hair. "I'll grab us something-" he began, but Tate beat him to it.

"Allow me," he said, fishing some wrinkled dollar notes from his pocket. Every year, Tate was grateful that American money didn't change. It would have been tedious to have to ask Constance for an allowance each Halloween.

He had a hard time choosing flavors at the colorful little coffee stand. Had there always been so many decisions involved in buying a simple cup of coffee?

Ben had lit up a cigarette by the time Tate returned. His dogged expression hadn't lifted.

"Wow," said Tate, handing him the cup, "There's so many different flavours. It's freaky, I don't know the half of them."

Ben wasn't listening. Tate followed his gaze; he was occupied watching a little girl with straight blonde hair and a stock-standard witches' costume running by.

Tate watched Ben's face. "She reminds you of Violet, doesn't she?" he asked, genuinely curious. He'd never thought much about what Violet would have been like as a little girl.

Ben smiled and nodded, and for a second Tate found himself grinning back.

"She had to be scary, my fierce little girl. Just like her mom. Smart, and beautiful. No need to be like anyone else." Ben's eyes closed, and he rubbed his forehead with his fingers. Tate didn't quite know what to think. All of the things he liked most about his Violet, all in one sentence. He had never seen Ben as a particularly observant individual before.

Ben turned to look at him, and there were tears in his eyes. "The thing is, uh, I was a troubled kid too. I was kind of like you, Tate. I didn't hold out too much hope for myself. Not too many other people did, either. It was a total shock to everyone including myself when I became a doctor. But somehow, I was given this, this amazing gift of family." He threw away his cigarette, and Tate looked at him uncomfortably. He had never before experienced the desire to comfort someone that he didn't really like.

He reached out a hand and patted Ben's wrist. "Hey," he said kindly. "It's gonna be okay, Doctor Harmon."

Ben pulled back. "I'm sorry," he said, embarrassed, wiping tears from his face. "I'm sorry, Tate."

They sat in silence a little while longer, listening to the sound of the children's laughter in the park.

"Doctor Harmon?" Tate asked. "Do you think maybe we can reschedule? I've, uh, got a lot of homework that I need to get through."

Ben looked up, and his eyes were thankful. "Sure, of course, Tate. I'm sorry about this. We'll do this again next week, alright?"

Tate nodded, rising to his feet.

"Don't worry so much, Mr Harmon," he said. "They're alright. You're…you're a good dad."

He held out his hand to the other man, and Ben shook it with a grateful smile. Tate left him on the bench. He felt oddly conflicted. He'd never be a big fan of the man, but Ben Harmon was not the easiest person in the world to consistently loathe.

~:~:~

He decided not to return to the mansion until later that night. Instead he scoured the beach, collecting driftwood to make a fire later for his date with Violet. He wondered if Violet liked fires. Or beaches, for that matter.

It occurred to him that, given this was their first actual night out, the proper thing to do would be to give her a gift. He visited the little boutique stores that he'd seen earlier, but all the fluffy bears and sparkly jewelry that the pushy saleswomen shoved under his nose seemed so anti-Violet that he left quickly. The sight of a little street vendor selling flowers near the craft store gave him an idea.

At nightfall, he returned to the house, surprising himself with his growing excitement. The familiar street was busier than usual; he vaguely registered girls in skimpy Halloween costumes and a couple cop cars. Probably a bunch of underage kids getting busted for drinking in public.

He crossed the lawn to the back of the house, running into Patrick on the way. He was dressed in the rubber suit.

"What are you doing back here?" Tate asked.

Patrick sighed. "The good nightclubs won't let you in without a costume. This was the only one I could think of on short notice." The suit was ill fitting on his larger frame; Patrick craned his neck uncomfortably. "I think I may have accidentally frightened your little girlfriend – I guess that makes us even for your little stunt yesterday afternoon."

Tate smirked. On his own, especially on Halloween, Patrick didn't get on his nerves quite as much as Chad always managed to.

"Here's my cab," Patrick said, moving past Tate. "Have fun popping your girl's cherry. Oh wait. Yours doesn't work on Halloween, I forgot." Tate spun around, fists clenched, but the Patrick was already out of reach, laughing at him as he opened the cab door. "_Now_ we're even," he called out as he drove away.

Tate shook his head, annoyed but amused, and continued to the back of the house. The only lit window was Violet's. He chose several good pebbles from the garden and threw them at her window, like he'd seen some guy do in a movie once. A moment later, Violet appeared, and he motioned at her to come down.

He ran to the basement, opening the door just as she arrived.

"Tate?" she called.

"Hey," he said. All the strange things that had happened that day seemed to dissipate. She ran to his arms with a little sigh.

"It's been insane here," she said. She sounded upset. "First the cops were outside and then some freak started screaming about money."

He didn't want her upset, not tonight. He pulled back, looking into her eyes. "Hey, hey. Shit like that does tend to go down on Halloween. It's probably just asshole kids. It's fine now. I'm here." Her face relaxed into a smile. The idea that she felt protected when he was with her, safe – it melted his heart.

He pulled out the rose that he'd bought from the vendor.

"I painted it black," he said, feeling like a pre-schooler at show-and-tell. "I know how you don't like normal things."

For a second he wondered if she'd laugh at him; her face was hard to read. She licked her lips, looking up at him uncertainly. "You're…the first boy to give me a flower," she said, her cheeks reddening ever so slightly.

Tate laughed softly, delighted to see his normally composed Violet so flustered.

"Thank you. I love it."

"Are you ready to go on our date?"

~:~:~

It turned out that Violet loved the beach. They climbed rocks and explored the little rock pools dotted around the sand, teeming with wriggly sea life. It took them an embarrassing amount of time to work out how to start the fire, neither of them having all that much experience with the outdoors. The beach was devoid of people, for which Tate was grateful. Other than the sound of their voices and the rush of the ocean, the night was silent.

Violet's phone rang suddenly in her pocket, and she glanced at the caller ID. "Shit, I need get this."

"Violet," Tate gave an over-the-top moan into the phone speaker. "Come get that ass back into bed. Bring the weed with you." Violet laughed, shoving him onto the sand.

"Fuck off. Go climb something." He grinned at her and swung back over the railing of the little lifeguard's hut they'd been exploring. "Asshole," she called after him with an affectionate smile.

Tate stood at the edge of the railing, holding out his arms to feel the wind. It made him almost giddy, having all this fresh air, although it was wasted on his worsted lungs. He glanced back at Violet, who was evidently discussing something serious with her phone, and decided that she'd been left undisturbed for far too long. He jumped off the railing and jogged back down the beach, sliding next to her in the sand and nuzzling her hair with his nose. She shoved him off ineffectually, trying to finish her call.

"Who was that?" he asked cheerfully as she hung up.

"My mom," she said, attempting to keep her serious face.

"Aww," he said, grabbing her waist and pushing her into the sand, his lips on her own. She tasted salty with the sea air. The feeling of her hands entwining in his hair made him shiver.

The cool sand felt nice against his skin, with the warmth of the fire just enough to ward off the biting ocean wind. For an amateur, Violet was a very decent kisser. Her little tongue explored his mouth, running softly over his own; her hands were in his hair, or trailing along his back, or gripping the nape of his neck. His thumbs pushed up slightly beneath her sweater, feeling the warm, soft skin of her slim stomach. He lost track of time at how long they lay together.

She pulled away suddenly, looking up at him. "I want to," she said, her voice husky. Before he could stop her hand went to his crotch, and he sucked in his breath in horror, pulling backward. There was a pause, and her eyes dimmed with disappointment and hurt.

"I'm sorry," he stammered. Her head fell back on the sand, her cheeks coloring with embarrassment.

"I thought…"

His insides writhed. "I just – Violet. I swear, I wanna be with you so badly. And that's never happened to me, with a girl." His words felt so useless. He wanted to scream. After all this time, after all the work it'd taken to get her so comfortable around him – it wasn't fair!

Her eyebrows furrowed. "Are you gay?" she asked, confused by his inflection.

He cursed himself for his thoughtless choice of words. "No," he exclaimed. He could hardly tell her that he'd tried to hook up with a prostitute, although at this point it seemed there was little that could make this situation any worse. "I just…" he trailed off, his confidence shaken by the stony expression on her face. He pulled back, away from her. She remained on he sand.

"Maybe it's those meds your dad gave me. They do that, you know."

After a moment she sat up, not looking at him. "Yeah. I'm gonna go." She rose to her feet, and his heart twisted.

"No, Vi, no," he begged, grabbing her arm. She paused. "I'm not ready to go. Not yet." Violet sighed, softened by the expression on his face. Reluctantly, she sat back down. He put his arm around her, and after a moment she nestled into the hollow of his chin.


	8. Chapter 8

Note: Basically my theory on Tate's little…operational problem…is that outside of the house he is a ghost first, functioning human second. His blood doesn't really pump, he can't really breathe the air, he's sort of a shadow of a human, something that's not quite right. Inside the house, whether fuelled by the delusion that they are indeed still somewhat alive or just the energy and power of the house, the ghosts can function all but normally, which is why every time that Tate is able to have sex during the series, it takes place in the house, just not outside of it.

I hope that answers a few of your questions about this!

~:~:~

They sat together in the soft firelight, and Tate, feeling as though he owed Violet something after such a disappointment, broke his usual rule of talking about herself. His experiences earlier today still fresh in his mind, he told her about school; how little it mattered, although when you were in it it seemed like the be all and end all of everything. He wanted to help her – he knew she had an even harder time there than he had.

Violet's head suddenly swung around, looking at the hilly crest of sand behind them.

"Someone's here," she said quietly.

A group of teenagers, dressed in matching zombie schoolkid outfits, were walking down the beach toward them. They circled the campfire.

"Nice costumes," said Violet mockingly. "What are you, the Dead Breakfast Club?"

"You know, there's a whole lot of beach, guys," said Tate, attempting to keep his voice friendly. He really couldn't afford much else to go wrong with this night, and he'd only just placated Violet.

"Good job, Tate," said a burly boy in some sort of sport uniform. Tate started the sound of his name. "You finally came out of hiding. We've been waiting for years for you to show your face but you like Mommy's little safe house, don't you?"

Tate tried to see their faces better in the flickering light, but there was nothing recognizable about them. "I don't know you," he said in confusion.

"I'm actually surprised you have the balls to show your face around here," said a pretty brunette, leaning down to his level.

"Yeah," added the girl behind him. She looked different to the others – more detail had gone into her brain-splattered makeup, and her gothic clothing was at odds with their uniforms. "Maybe you should've worn a mask."

"I'm not really into Halloween," Tate said, attempting a smile.

"But this year's different, right?" she continued, her voice derisive. She looked at Violet, and Tate's smile disappeared. "You have a date. How cute is that?" She leant forward, and Tate put a hand on her arm.

"Leave her alone," he said firmly. The girl stood, and Tate stood in response, shielding Violet.

"We don't want her," interjected the first boy. "We want you."

"How 'bout we drown him?" said the goth girl eagerly. Tate saw Violet roll her eyes. He realized she was more used to this kind of senseless bullying than he was.

"No, we should shoot him," said the boy. "Right between the eyes."

Before he could reply Violet was standing between them. "Ha ha." Her voice was deadpan. "Halloween prank."

"Can we _please_ erase this bitch?" the malice in the goth girl's voice made the hair on the nape of his neck stand on end. Violet spun back to face her.

"Yeah," another boy chimed in. "How does he get a girlfriend? I don't have a girlfriend. Do you have a girlfriend? Do you?" he asked the others.

"Nope," said the football player with a smirk. "I haven't had sex in a long time."

They were closing in, their mocking banter more pressing. Tate reached for Violet's arm. "Come on," he said quietly, "Let's go. This beach sucks. And they should pick up the trash."

He waited anxiously to hear the sound of pursuit, but glancing back moments later he saw that they hadn't moved.

They didn't speak on the way home. Violet was quiet, and Tate could see she was shaken. He knew how much bullying upset her. She didn't let go of his hand until they reached her room once more. Somehow, the house felt safer to Tate than ever before.

He walked into the room while she shut the door, and waited.

Violet turned to him slowly. "Are you seriously gonna act like nothing happened at the beach? They totally knew you, Tate."

"But I don't know them," he said.

"Then why do they hate you?"

He had been struggling with this question the whole way home. Was this some sort of off-kilter prank that Chad had organized to bust up his date? He had briefly wondered if they might be kids from Violet's school that had been out to cause trouble.

"They're just high school assholes," he answered, more to himself than Violet, "I mean, the world' full of them. It's these popular kids that get off on being mean and cruel. I…I thought you understood that."

Violet's expression confused him. "Tate, I can tell you're totally freaked out…" she paused, glancing toward the window.

The creepy howling and barking sound effects that Chad had set up by the gates to go off when anyone entered had started up again. Violet and Tate looked at one another. Surely it was too late for trick or treaters by now. They moved to the window and peered out the slats.

"Its them!" Violet exclaimed. "They followed us here?" her voice hardened. "This is bullshit."

Tate reached for her, but Violet shook him off, and he fell back. He had never quite seen Violet in this state before; he felt completely out of his depth. She strode to the desk, grabbing a pair of scissors from a pot of pens, and stormed out the room. Tate followed her down the hall, invisible, and watched her fling open the front door. He dithered behind the windows, wondering what she had planned.

He heard the schoolkids taunting her from the driveway, and his blood boiled again.

"This is private property. I have every right to call the cops." He was proud of his Violet – not a tremor in her voice.

"Go ahead, call them, you'll probably need them," called out on of the girls.

"Screw that. She deserves whatever happens to her."

"Yeah. Cause she's like those lonely fat chicks that marry guys on death row. You are deeply, deeply disturbed."

Tate pulled back, his heart pounding. This had gone beyond a joke now. Whatever it was they thought they knew about him, this was a very personal, very deliberate attack. He searched their faces, desperate to work out some connection with who they might be. Could they be friends of the gays that had somehow, impossibly, pieced two and two together and worked out what he'd done? They didn't exactly look old enough to be close friends with Chad or Patrick.

To be honest, they didn't really look likely to be close friends themselves – two of the boys were tall and skinny, obviously a little geeky, while the boy and girl in cheerleader and quarterback costumes were the picture of high school royalty. The gothic blonde was something else entirely. All that Tate knew of high school could be easily condensed into one fact: People didn't tend to associate with those at lower levels of the social food chain.

They were still taunting Violet, and at once he realized they were closing in on her.

"What did he do to you?" Violet yelled at them.

"She doesn't know," exclaimed one of the girls in disbelief.

"Know about what?"

"How have you not heard about Westfield high?" asked the quarterback slowly.

"We just moved here."

"Pick up a yearbook, bitch," snarled the goth.

"Or read a newspaper."

"We're kind of famous."

Violet laughed. "So you're popular. And you're pissed off I don't know who you are."

The goth advanced, and Tate's pulse thrummed. "Let's put her down, out of her misery." He heard her say. He couldn't bear to stay behind the doorway any longer.

"Leave her alone!" he called out, flinging the door open.

"Finally!" called out the quarterback. "The prodigal son returns."

Violet looked at him in relief, hurrying to his side.

"Come on down, man, we've got some questions."

"Go inside. I can handle this," Tate said firmly to Violet.

"I seriously doubt that," said the cheerleader. The group stepped forward in unison.

"Go inside," Tate said to Violet harshly. Her eyes widened in fear.

"No!" she said urgently. "They want to hurt you!" he looked at her stubborn little face and felt a desperate kind of gratefulness, tempered by rising fear. Of course she'd never willingly leave his side, no matter how confused she was or how badly he'd ruined her night. But she was in danger, here, and no matter how brave she was he couldn't let her get hurt on his account. He steeled himself.

"You wanna talk to me?" he called out. "Let's see how fast you can run." He let go of Violet's hand and sprinted between them down the driveway. A moment later, five pairs of feet were thundered after him, and Violet was safe.

Tate was a fast runner; smaller and lighter than the quarterback, he kept a fairly steady lead. He wasn't entirely sure where he was going, but found his feet leading him back to the beach.

At the bottom of the sand dunes his legs gave out at last, and he stopped, bent over double. They were close behind him; in a moment they had circled around him once more.

"I used to run track," he panted.

"We know." They said.

"Is somebody going to explain this to me?" he snarled.

"Do you believe in God?" asked the goth.

Tate smirked. "Is that what this is about? You guys are with Campus Crusades?"

The goth girl lunged at him, throwing him backwards into a metal bin. "You asked me if I believed in God and put a gun to my head," she said through gritted teeth, her hands tight around his collar. "I said yes. It wasn't even true and I said yes. And then, you pulled the trigger."

Tate pulled back. "What is this?" he demanded. "Is this part of a Halloween act? Because the makeup, it's chilling, but the performance-"

He felt a blow to the stomach and doubled over again as the quarterback threw him into the sand.

"No more bullshit, Tate," he roared. "You owe us an explanation."

Tate clutched his stomach. "Why are you doing this to me?" he yelled. "What do you want?" The boy kicked him again in the stomach, harder this time.

"Why did you target the jocks? I never did anything to you!"

"It wasn't just the jocks, man." The tall boy with long hair approached, and to Tate's relief the quarterback withdrew slightly. "I mean look at me, look at Amir. Did you ever once go to a football game? This guy was honor roll, man. He could've been Valedictorian. Asshole!" he kicked Tate in the stomach. "I'm not gonna change the world, okay? But he could have. He could've been something and you ruined all of that potential."

Tate struggled to listen as he dragged himself onto the metal bench they'd kicked him against.

"We wanna know why. You owe us that." The cheerleader was crying now.

"Way more than that," snapped the goth.

"You've got the wrong guy, okay?" said Tate.

"No, don't you dare," cried the cheerleader, her voice high with anguish. "We have been looking for you for years!"

"He's screwing with us." said the quarterback.

Monster mask, face of a dead thing. Tate's fantasy, the one he told Ben on his first day of therapy. For the briefest moment, his skeletal face flashed before his eyes. What was the connection – why remember that now? What were these kids doing to him?

"Get out!" he screamed, hitting his head to dispel the images. "Get out of my head!"

"We aren't in your head," said the cheerleader. She was close to him now, leaning down to stare up at his face. "We are right here."

"Come on, Chloe. The sun's coming up," said the jock.

"Please just say it," said the girl, and her voice was soft now. Tears ran freely down her cheeks. "Just say what you did."

He looked her in the eye, the face of this stranger that seemed to know him so well, searching desperately for a spark of recognition, the tiniest memory.

"I should be thirty-four years old," she sobbed. "And married, with babies…"

"I don't know you," Tate said quietly. He felt tears in his own eyes. "I'm sorry," he said, looking up at the others. "I don't know you."

They looked back at them, frustrated and hurt. The goth reached over and pulled the cheerleader away. "Come on," she said softly. "We've gotta get going."

They turned away from him together.


	9. Chapter 9

Tate was frightened. Frightened of himself, of Violet. He avoided her on return to the house, after checking that she'd gotten to bed alright – watched her fitful sleep for a while, before slipping out again as she woke. What must she think of him? What would she say when she saw him next? Hating his own cowardice, he nevertheless remained in the basement, terrified of what she'd do, the way she'd look at him now that she'd had time to calm down and rethink all that had happened.

And what had happened? Tate sat on the floor of the dim basement for hours, trying to piece together what they had said to him. They had obviously been ghosts; so animated with their murderous rage that they'd seemed like living humans to him until the end. And they knew details about him – his name, which school he'd gone to, that he'd run track when he was there. They apparently knew that the mansion had belonged to his mother when he was alive. They didn't know Violet, so they hadn't seen her at school. The girl had said she'd be 34 by now – that would have put her in school at the same time that he'd been there, around the time that he died. He couldn't remember them, but that was unsurprising. He'd taken about as much notice of his classmates as they had him.

His head hurt with so many unanswered questions and conflicting memories. He knew Violet had left the house, and took the chance to step back into her room. Just the presence of her familiar things, the lilac scent of her shampoo still lingering on the sheets, was a comfort. He lay on her bed for a while, ran his fingers gently over the things on her desk. Her ipod interested him – he'd seen her use it before, and for a while he played with the strange buttons until he worked out how to play the songs that he liked.

His guilt for not coming to see her came back in full force. She had been so frightened – the last time she'd seen him, he was running for his life from five angry teenagers. He wanted to do something for her, but at this point his clumsy words seemed a paltry gift after all he'd inadvertently put her through.

Tate studied the blackboard for a while, then picked up the chalk and slowly, deliberately, wrote what he'd been struggling to say for weeks.

The front door opened downstairs, and dropping the chalk he disappeared from the room, the forgotten music still playing.

He walked through the house quietly. The other ghosts had all disappeared somewhere; probably moping at the fact that there was another year to go before they could escape the house again. He didn't want to go back, although for a while he toyed with the idea of sneaking into her room once more and rubbing his message off the wall. He didn't quite know what he'd do if she threw his words back in his face. Had she seen it yet? Was she thinking of him right at that moment?

At last he couldn't bear it any longer, and crossing to her hallway, Tate knocked softly on the door.

There was no answer, which Tate thought was odd. He'd heard her run up the stairs to her room some time earlier. Perhaps her headphones were in. He turned the handle and pushed the door open a little.

She was asleep on the bed, and he let out a little sigh of relief that the dreaded conversation could wait a little longer. She was so _little _when she slept, her small body curled around a pillow, her hair fanning out above her. Watching her sleep always had such a calming effect.

He moved to sit at his favorite armchair, but something caught his eye. An empty pill bottle lay by Violet's head, its lid beside it. Violet didn't take any medicine that he knew of.

Tate's heart dropped. "Violet," he said softly, reaching out and patting her leg. She didn't move. "Violet?" he grabbed her shoulder and shook it roughly. "Violet, stop it, wake up." Her head rolled back, mouth open. Her eyes remained shut.

He reeled, snatching up her wrist and feeling for a pulse. Her hands were cold.

Tate grabbed her around the waist and lifted her over his shoulder. Her dead human weight was too heavy for him; he carried her to the floor, and hurriedly spread out his jumper beneath her. He could hear himself sobbing, dimly realized that he was screaming out her name, but he clung to the detached self that allowed him to move quickly, to drag her out into the hall by his sweater, down the hallway into the bathroom.

"DON'T YOU DIE ON ME, VIOLET, DON'T YOU DIE," his own broken yell cut through the haze in front of his eyes, and suddenly he was vividly aware of the situation around him. He couldn't let her go like this – it was too cruel, the irony of their mirrored deaths too impossibly painful to stand. He pulled Violet after him into the bathtub, frantically turning the faucet on. Cold water rained down on them, and he forced his fingers between her clenched teeth, desperate to make her vomit up the pills. Her body was limp, cold. He shook her fiercely, hitting her back with the palm of his hand, attempting to make her vomit again.

"Tate, stop. TATE." He flung off the hand at his shoulder, still screaming Violet's name. He struggled to see through his tears.

Arms went around his own, grabbing his wrists firmly and holding him still. Tate resisted for a second more, and then crumpled, Violet's body still leaning against him

Moira held him tightly, one hand still holding his own as it clutched Violet's lifeless form, the other stroking his hair.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," Moira's voice broke, and for a few minutes she said nothing. The only sounds in the bathroom were the still-running water and Tate's agonized cries, slowly softening into a whisper.

Finally Moira pulled back, stepping around the bathtub so Tate could see her.

"Listen to me. Tate, listen. In a few minutes she's going to come back. Her body can't be here, the shock of it could drive her mad."

Tate buried his face in Violet's hair, but Moira pulled him back insistently.

"I can't, I can't," he sobbed.

"I'll do it, but you have to let her go. I have to move her. Let go, Tate. She's going to be right there in just a few moments. Give her body to me."

Tate forced himself to listen, to pull his hands from around Violet. He reached forward, kissing her wet hair desperately, still calling out her name. Others appeared; Tate couldn't register faces, only that together they lifted his Violet away from him, carried her limp body out the door and left him alone.

He waited.

He heard a groan, and felt the weight of her once again on his legs. She still lay limply, but now he could feel the movement of her nerves, the life in her skin. He reached for her mouth again, forcing her to retch. This time, her body responded; jerking upright, Violet gagged violently. Tate stroked her wet hair, and she turned to him, her face bewildered. She gave a little gasping sob, her cries turning into a high, keening sound. Tate pulled her closer, held her in his arms as tightly as he could, kissing her head, her neck, drinking in the scent of her once more.

How long they sat together, as the water collected around them and drenched through their clothes, he would never know. He only knew that the light around them changed, and that, after a long time, Violet fell asleep, her eyes still raw from crying.

He switched off the tap and pulled her from the tub. She weighed nothing, now, and he carried her back to her room, pulling off her wet things. Softly, so as not to wake her, he dried her off, toweling her damp hair until it lay in little waves around her head. He dressed her in the oversized sweatshirt she wore to bed and pulled the covers over her like a child. She sighed deeply, and rolled over onto the pillows, nestled between the blankets.

He watched her for a few moments more before forcing himself to leave. He had to see that the others had taken care of everything.

Moira was waiting for him downstairs. "How is she?" she asked gently, reaching forward and taking his hands.

Tate's throat rasped when he spoke. "Asleep. She doesn't know."

Moira nodded. "It may be best, given the nature of her…passing…that she doesn't find out, at least for a while. She's too unstable at this moment to handle it, I believe."

Tate nodded, swallowing hard to fight off the images that swarmed at the back of his mind. He would deal with them later, when he was alone.

"We've hidden the body in the crawl space beneath the house. The others agreed that it would be best to let you decide where you wanted her buried, when you were ready. The others…they send their condolences." She added.

"Will you thank them for me?"

"Of course. And, Tate-" her voice grew sadder, and he saw tears in her eyes. "I'm so sorry that this happened. You did everything you could. I'm proud of you."

"I told her that I loved her," said Tate blankly. "I told her that I loved her on a chalkboard, and she killed herself."

Moira's eyes widened. "Tate. No. You can't think like that, of course not. Violet – she had a lot of things going wrong. Things you couldn't have known about or helped. Her parents, leaving behind her life in Boston, trouble at school. If anything, you were the one bright star in this world for her. I saw how happy she was with you."

Tate dropped his head into his hands. "Then why did she leave me? She was willing to leave me, to leave her whole life. She didn't even say goodbye. She doesn't…she doesn't love me like I love her. And now she'll spend forever in this house, not loving me. How can I live with that, every day?"

Moira shook him firmly. "You don't know that. You don't know anything for certain, and you won't until you speak to her, find out what was going through her mind. She was a child, she made a foolish mistake. Go to her. Be there for her as she transitions. When you think she's ready, talk to her."

She pushed him gently, and he staggered backward, appearing in Violet's room where she lay as he had left her. He wanted to go to her with every fiber of his being, but made himself walk to the armchair instead, to wait for her to rise.

~:~:~

Violet was reclusive in the days that followed. She was absent, her mind scattered – any attempts Tate made to speak to her were soon forgotten, and he took to following her through the house, watching that she didn't get into any trouble. He stood by as she struggled with the nausea and sickness as the last of her soul separated from her decaying body. She often wandered the house, seeming oblivious to the walls she walked through or the way that time passed by in great leaps whenever she wasn't paying attention. Sometimes he would hold her, and she would allow it, but soon he would feel her pulling away, to wander again in the lost halls.

As the sickness abated she took to reading books on her bed, and the drifting ceased. She woke and went to sleep in her old routine, made small efforts to speak to her parents, to attend meals and get dressed each day.

Tate waited until at last her gaze lost its absent sheen, and the Violet he knew returned to her own mind. He found her on he bed flipping through a book that he faintly remembered reading, and in a moment he was visible again.

"I like birds too," he said softly.

She looked up at him slowly. "Why do you like them?"

"Cause they can fly away when things get too crazy, I guess," he said, attempting a smile. She didn't move, and Tate braced himself. "Are you going to tell your parents? About the pills?"

"No," she said. "I've been sleeping a lot. They think I'm depressed."

"Are you?" he asked. If she could remember, on her own, now that she'd had time to adapt to her new reality, it might be easier on her mind.

"I'm sad."

"Me too." He took a deep breath. "Violet," he said, hating the tears that came so readily to his eyes these days, "something's changed in you, towards me. You're distant, cold. I don't know what I've done, but… I'll leave you alone from now on, if that's what you want. Is that what you want?"

Tate held his breath, but she didn't reply. Her face was unreadable, and he continued desperately, suddenly frightened that she'd interrupt without his ever getting a chance to explain.

"You know why I'd leave you alone? 'Cause I care about your feelings more than mine. I love you." He bit his lip, but couldn't risk stopping now. "There, I said it. And not just on some chalkboard. I would never let anybody, or anything hurt you. I've never felt that way about anyone."

He waited, and for a horrible moment felt sure that she'd turn away, or tell him to leave. Her face softened momentarily, and for a flash he saw the girl that he knew.

"Come here," she said, moving over on the bed.

Hardly daring to hope, Tate crept forward, pulling himself over the bedframe and to her side. She reached for his hand, and he held it tightly, entwining his fingers with her own. She pulled him in against her, and the scent of her hair, the feeling of her warm breath on his cheek – he let her comfort him with her presence, the feeling of her enough to fight away the darkness for just a little longer.

"I'm tired," Tate whispered.

"Me too," said Violet.

He fell asleep in her arms.


	10. Chapter 10

He had dared to hope that she might get better, but as the quiet days dragged on she seemed to diminish. She could avoid him, now, slipping away from him soundlessly to some other corner of the house, still unaware of her own state.

He found her one day in the bathroom as he'd first seen her, slowly tracing a path of blood along her wrist with one of her old blades. This time, he couldn't bear to watch from the door.

"Stop it!" he yelled.

Violet barely seemed alarmed.

"Let me see that," he added, attempting to soften his voice as he reached for her arm. The cut was deep; he wondered if it would alarm her when it healed in a couple of minutes. He leant down and sucked off the blood with his mouth, for a moment wishing he could suck out the poison in her.

"Gross!" Violet exclaimed, jerking her hand away.

"You're right! It is gross. You're mutilating yourself."

"You do it." She snapped.

"Not anymore. Promise me you'll never cut yourself again. She looked down at her wrist, not seeming to notice that the cut was growing steadily smaller.

"I promise."

~:~:~

Tate hated Hayden the moment he met her.

She found him in Violet's room, reading a book next to her while she slept. He didn't know how long she'd stood there watching until her fist smacked down on Violet's dressing table. Violet started, rolled over in her sleep.

"Oh, did I wake Sleeping Beauty?" Hayden sang.

Tate sat up swiftly, closing his book.

"Who are you?"

She smiled widely at him, a gesture he did not return. "We haven't met yet, have we? I'm her daddy's dirty mistress. You might've heard of me."

"Oh, sure," Tate replied with a smirk. "So you're the little homewrecker. Look's like everything's going just swell for you. How's being stuck in a house with your fuck buddy and his wife?"

Hayden's nostrils flared, which did little for her appearance. Tate decided she looked like a snub-nosed shark.

"I've come with a message for you. The rest of the house is fed up with your little girlfriend getting the special treatment. It's bad enough we have to stay invisible from the humans most of the time; they at least want to be able to walk around normally when it's just us."

"Who died and made you housekeeper? You should chat to Moira. She gets a little tetchy about her territory."

Hayden smiled humorlessly. "I can see why little Violet likes you; you're a cocky one. Are you going to tell her, or should I?"

Tate's jaw hardened. "Violet's fragile. She isn't ready to know what happened yet."

"Whatever, man. I'm just telling you what I know. I don't care how you explain it, but if you don't want her losing her shit when a bunch of people with open wounds and some killer period costumes start wandering though her house, you better come up with some kind of story."

Hayden smiled again, then swept her hand over Violet's nightstand, sending her things crashing to the floor. Tate dove at her, but the little ghost disappeared with a laugh.

~:~:~

He knew that she'd been right, however little he wanted to admit it to himself. He'd been lucky that the others had stayed away this long without appearing to Violet. The only problem now was finding a way of easing it to her gently. He came close to telling her that night, when Violet looked up from the sunset she'd been watching from her window.

"We could run away, Tate."

He paused over the book he had picked up from her floor, not trusting himself to look at her.

"Where would we run to?"

"It doesn't matter. Away from all the shit. Like the birds in that book. We can run away from my parents and this house and this bullshit town, everything. They wouldn't even notice. We could be halfway across the state before they realized I was even gone."

Tate closed his eyes. "Do you really want to leave so badly?"

The sun had disappeared completely, and with a little sigh Violet closed the window and went to stand by her mirror, her feverish resolve of a moment ago gone. "No, I'm just talking shit. I think I'm just sick of my parents. They've planned some brutal family dinner for tonight, as if it's gonna make me feel better."

They all got like this, in the first few weeks and months of being spirits in the house. He'd known it, had expected it, but somehow Tate wasn't quite prepared for the pain that would come when the inevitable truth arose: that she could never truly leave, that these walls would be her eternity. It seemed wrong to him, this vibrant little soul locked forever in such a place of misery and despair.

"Do you believe in ghosts?" he asked, glancing over at her.

She looked over at him, confused. "Why're you asking me?"

"I don't know," he said, looking away from her. "It can't all be shit, right? There's gotta be someplace better, somewhere. For people like you, at least." He smiled ruefully.

Her face was unreadable as her dark eyes studied him. "Not you?"

Tate looked down again. "Ever since you got here this is the better place." He dared to meet her gaze, her dark eyes unflinching. He couldn't tell her, not tonight.

~:~:~

She didn't cut herself again, for which he was grateful, but he had taken to following her through the house as she wandered. He kept himself hidden from her, but the other ghosts could see him, and kept a wide berth, although he doubted that they would agree to stay invisible for Violet much longer.

She discovered Beau in the attic on her own. Tate had never connected with his brother the way he had with Thaddeus – Beau was kind and innocent and guileless, without any of the strength or fire that drew him so to Violet. The boy bored him, and a small part of him was aware of how sensitive the little soul would be to the corruption of his own.

He followed her into the loft slowly. Beau looked up eagerly from his corner, reached for the red ball that he and Constance used to play with on the days that she condescended to visit him. He rolled the ball to Violet, who stopped it with her shoe. She picked it up, looking at it curiously.

Beau lumbered forward, his shackles making the movement more frightening than it was. "Play!" he called excitedly to Violet.

She screamed and leapt back, stumbling into Tate's chest. His arms reached out instinctively to hold her.

"You're scaring her," he said sternly to Beau. "GO AWAY."

His registered the hurt on his brother's face for an instant, before the misshapen face disappeared into the shadows.

Violet was breathing heavily into his shoulder, and it occurred to Tate that her fear was far closer to her these days – the bravado that he had come to expect of her was disappearing.

"Violet," he urged, "It's okay. Calm down, okay?" he stroked her hair gently.

She looked back at the now empty corner, her breathing hitching into helpless little sobs. "I feel like I'm totally losing it," she whispered.

Tate breathed deeply. It was almost time.

"They're from the past," he said softly. "The ghosts of people who have died here. They're appearing to you now because you're evolved. Don't be scared. All you have to do is tell them to go away, and they will."

She was calming down, and now looked at him curiously. "You really know your way around this house."

"I guess I do," he paused, brought back to the sudden reality of the charade he'd almost forgotten. "I've been exploring after my sessions. Don't tell your dad."

She looked at him with those eyes, and he knew that if she kept along this track she'd guess far too much too quickly.

"There's more, you should see the things I've found. Come look," he pulled her hand, and she followed without question.

He took her to the basement where he'd collected souvenirs of those that had lived there before. He passed her the boxes; the gays' magazines, the things his own mother had left. He glanced at the box of Nora's photos, remembering her showing it to him as a child – somehow, the memory was an uncomfortable one now.

"What's in the other box?"

He started, pulled back from thought, and passed the box to her.

There were other boxes in the little hidden vault, but this one seemed to catch her attention, and Tate let her take it back to her room, knowing that Nora wouldn't remember it was there.

~:~:~

His first session with Ben Harmon since Halloween was the next day. The doctor had relented on letting Tate back in the house after their little heart-to-heart on the park bench.

It was not a particularly illuminating meeting; Ben was evidently still grappling with whatever personal issues were occurring in his home life and Tate too focused on getting back to Violet to pay much attention to anything the other man said. It was a relief to him when Ben announced the end of their session.

Ben leaned forward, whatever had been on his mind apparently coming to the surface at last. "Look, I, uh, need to ask you something off the clock. And I have no right to ask you this, but I'm desperate. I'm worried about Violet."

Tate shifted uncomfortably. He'd hoped to avoid any more deep and meaningfuls with his psychiatrist if at all possible.

"I get that," he said easily, "she's your daughter. But you know, she's not a little girl anymore." _She's a little ghost wandering through your corridors at night._ "And at some point, you're gonna have to let her go."

"She won't talk to me anymore. We used to be very close."

"She's been through a lot," said Tate.

"She talks to you," interrupted Ben with a meaningful look. "I know she talks to you. What I'm getting at, Tate, is…if Violet is in trouble, real trouble, please come to me right away. I don't wanna lose her. I can't. I wouldn't survive it."

Tate smiled. "I wish you were my father. My life would've been a lot different."

~:~:~

Leaving the session he heard his name being called. Constance was in the hallway a floor down. He crossed over to her.

"What do you want?"

She'd been crying. His voice startled her – she turned to look at him with her personal brand of sentimental adoration that made his stomach sick.

"Well, I wanted to see you," she said with a breathless smile, reaching for him. He pulled back automatically, and she withdrew her hand, stroking along the skin of her own cheek.

"Are you feeling any better? Are the…visits with the good doctor…helping you?"

"Yeah. We're really getting to the root of the problem. Turns out I hate my mother."

He left her in the hall, stepping back up to where Violet waited for him.


	11. Chapter 11

_Sorry this update took so long! I've been procrastinating a little over this particular chapter. Please keep the reviews and suggestions coming, they're the biggest motivator I can get! _

~:~:~

Now that she could see them and control them, it didn't take Violet long to get over her fear of the others in the house. She began to explore, finding little moments to slip out of Tate's sight and discover the other spirits. She found Thaddeus without difficulty from the little sounds he made as he moved about the basement. She brought the red ball she'd taken from the attic, and spent a good amount of time attempting to draw Thad out of the shadows to play with her.

He father found her there, and Tate was irritated at him for interrupting. He was delighted by he prospect of Violet and Thad becoming friends. The other child was lonely, and Tate was too preoccupied these days to play his regular games with him.

He stayed in the basement with Thaddeus after Ben left with Violet to lecture her about school. He let the other beat him in chess to make up for the long time he'd been absent.

"I like her."

It was such a rare thing to hear Thaddeus speak that Tate actually jumped.

"Violet? You do?"

The little white creature peered up at him from heavily lidded eyes.

"Yes."

Tate leant forward eagerly.

"She's wonderful, Thad, just wait and see. She's going to live with us forever now. She'll come and play with you and we can explore the house and you'll have someone else to hang out with. And she's amazing. She likes music – you like music, right? She'll play music for you, and she's got a laptop computer and she'll show you movies. We'll be a family."

Thaddeus turned away, reaching for something under his blankets.

"For Violet."

He put a whole rat in Tate's hands, bloated with its rotting entrails. Thaddeus beamed at him; evidently the great hardship he'd endured at not eating the rat himself was the true value of this smelly delicacy.

"I know she'll love it. Look, you even tied the tail in a knot. Girls love that shit," said Tate.

He reached forward and ruffled the other boy's hair, mentally calculating the minutes until he could hide the rat in Ben's study somewhere.

~:~:~

He only realized that he'd been in the basement for hours when he heard the front door slam and realized that it was nighttime outside the windows. Saying goodbye to Thaddeus he crossed to Violet's room, wondering if it was late enough for her to be in bed yet.

In the darkness, it look him a moment to realize that her rumpled bed was empty. He looked around the room, in a moment taking in the half-empty drawers of clothes, her missing ipod and laptop. His stomach dropped, and in an instant he was staring at her from the shadows of the front porch.

Violet and Vivian were sprinting for the car. She still looked half-asleep, obviously dragged awake by her mother – hair a little ruffled, bags in hand.

He leapt over the railing, feeling the cruel pull of the house, the sickness building in his stomach. He stopped as she saw him. She looked lost, miserable.

He saw her mouth something – his name? She glanced toward her mother, then met his eyes again, begging him to understand.

"Don't leave," the words wouldn't quite come out, but he knew she understood, his pain mirrored in her own face. Her mother pulled her unwilling daughter into the car.

He turned away, into the dark of the house where the sickness subsided. This was it, then. After all of his careful work of preparing her for the terrible knowledge of her death – in a moment they'd drive away, and she'd find herself back in the house, and the secret would be out. He wondered if it would actually be enough to drive Vivien over the edge of her already fraying sanity.

He stood in the shadows, waiting, but the car didn't drive away. A moment more – he heard Vivien's scream of terror, heard the car doors slam. His heart leapt and he spun, watched his Violet sprinting back to the house.

"Damn it." Moira muttered by his side. "Foolish woman."

Tate turned on her slowly.

"You sent them away?"

She glanced at him, her eyes shrewd. "The mother, not the child. You know what they'll do to her in this house. I hardly thought you'd want the lioness around when you're so taken with her cub."

He grabbed her collar, drew her to him before she could hit back. "You knew she'd try to take her away. You knew she'd try to leave. Why now? She _isn't ready_."

Moira hit him with flat hands against his chest, sending him staggering back, and suddenly her younger self stood before him, as it did whenever their fights grew serious enough to reveal this side of her personality. "There is never going to be a good time to tell her that she's dead, Tate. There's still a chance for her mother. Selfish boy! You've gotten what you wanted."

"Stay away from Violet," he snarled, ignoring her to turn back to the house.

"She's strong, Tate. She's not going to go mad when she finds out. She isn't…she isn't Nora."

He swung back to her, but Moira had disappeared.

He reentered the house and stood listening at the bottom of the stairs for a moment or two. Vivien was frantically calling Ben and the police, her voice hitching into hysterical notes. He couldn't hear Violet at all downstairs. He crossed to her bedroom, flung open the door –

She was in his arms in a moment, long hair swinging around his face, the subtle scent of lilac driving everything else from his mind. He held her tightly around the waist, lifting her off the ground until her legs wrapped around his torso, their lips colliding in an assault of such desperate, heady kisses that they hardly seemed to take a breath between them.

"We didn't leave. I won't leave you, I can't do it again," Violet whispered, pressing her forehead against his own. Tate shut his eyes, holding her as close as he could without hurting her. She'd said it now, she wouldn't leave. She didn't want to fly away. She was his.

How they made it to the bed he'd never remember. Her mother, too distraught in her own nightmare, didn't come to check on her daughter.

Violet's fingers retraced the path that had been foiled that night on the beach; he heard her breathless little laugh as she struggled with his sweater, felt the cool of the night air on his chest. He reached for the waistband of her sweatpants, slid them off her slim legs, running his hands over the soft flesh of her calves, her thighs. She shifted to raise her arms; he pulled off the oversized shirt she wore to bed, threw it somewhere on the floor.

She dragged him to her, her hands on his shoulders, and he kissed feverishly the soft skin of her neck, down her clavicles, across the pale expanse of her slim belly. He felt the pattern of goosebumps follow the trail of his lips, felt his own heart thud at the little sigh she gave when his fingers glided across her waist. He forced himself to pause, to pull back from her.

"Are you sure you're-"

He felt the breath leave him as she pitched forward, hands around his waist, throwing him onto the bed next to her and rolling neatly on top of him.

"Shut your mouth." She whispered into his ear, one finger tracing across the skin in the middle of his chest. Tate gave a tiny little moan, felt her giddy laugh hot against his ear. He hands were on the buckle of his jeans, undoing the clasp that he felt would be simply beyond him to work out at this point.

He helped her kick off his trousers, and she ran her hands through his hair, pulling him forward until he was cradling her in his lap. He ran his hands across her back, feeling the feather-light hair at the nape of her neck rise. Somehow he tackled the clasp of her bra, slipping the straps down her shoulders to meet the rest of their clothes in the darkness on the floor.

She was perfect, a tantalizing little porcelain sculpture. He was cautious at first, frightened of hurting her, of roughly touching the skin that must surely bruise like an apple. She didn't look frightened, only a little breathless. He was sure he kissed every inch of her pliant little body, felt that he'd known no greater delight than the light press of her fingers against his chest, or the first little gasp, or the second, or the little sighs and moans that he matched with his own.

When she slept at last, sometime close to dawn, he couldn't take his eyes from her, tracing his fingertips down her arms, stroking the slight contours of her stomach and thighs, softly, without waking her. He felt her hands entwine with his own, saw the glimmer of laughter in her sleepy eyes as she pulled his arm around her and nestled herself under the crook of his arm.

"Sleep, Tate," she murmured, and he let himself drift dreamlessly, never releasing her hand.

~:~:~

She was awake when he woke in the soft brightness of early morning, listening to the sound of her parents arguing downstairs. She'd obviously been awake a while; her hair was brushed, and she had more clothes on than the last time he'd seen her. Her fingers stroked his own absently, and he turned to her, burying his face in her stomach. She laughed, pushing him off.

"Cut it out! That tickles." She said. He repositioned himself to rest his head in her lap, closing his eyes again as she stroked the tousled curls on his head.

"Guess what?" he asked sleepily.

"If you're going to make some kind of dirty sex joke-"

"Oh, never mind then." He laughed as she hit his arm.

He paused, then added, "Was it…did you..like…that?"

He could feel her smile as she replied. "I liked it. Very much."

He pulled himself upright, keeping one of her hands in his own. They lay together a little longer. He studied their hands, the way their fingers interlaced with one another.

A thought occurred to him suddenly, and he looked up at her anxiously, realizing he hadn't asked her already. "Did it hurt? The first time usually does." He gave a guilty grimace.

"No," she said with a shrug. "It was intense."

He gave a small smile, suppressing the agreeable memories that flashed through his mind for the moment. "For me too."

Violet looked thoughtful; she traced a finger across his jaw distractedly. "You really are here, aren't you?"

"Of course. I'll always be here." He paused, his old vulnerability sneaking back into this pristine moment. "If that's what you want."

"They'll always be here too, won't they. The…others."

"They can't hurt us, Violet," he assured her.

"Those freaks who tried to kill me and my mom. They're dead, aren't they? We saw them outside last night. My mom's totally freaked out. She thinks they're back to finish what they started. And she called the police and my dad rushed over-"

"They're just trying to scare you," he interrupted gently. "That's all they can do now."

"I wish I could tell my mom that."

"You can't!" Tate pulled himself up anxiously. "You can't, you can't…Violet. If you tell anyone what we know, they'll say you're crazy. They'll wanna lock you up, they'll try to take you away from here." He paused, halted by the look of skepticism on her face. "We'd never see each other again,"

"Violet? Can you come downstairs?" he heard her father call.

"Coming," said Violet, not taking her eyes off him. He stared at her uneasily. "Tate, I'm not going to tell them. It's okay. Now, put some…pants on…or something. The last thing we need is my dad walking in and seeing some butt naked boy in my bed." She smirked at him as she left the room.


	12. Chapter 12

Tate leant back on his chair, his legs propped on old milk crates. He liked this part of the basement. It was quiet, one of the few places in the house where he could just sit and think for a moment. Not that he was getting all that much thinking done today; it was hard to concentrate on the matter at hand without little memories of Violet's soft skin and the way her hips moved creeping back into his head every few minutes.

He shook himself, trying to think. Vivian might have been frightened back into the house once, but he knew it was only a matter of time before she tried to take Violet away again, and Tate doubted that they'd be so lucky a second time around. The problem now was getting Vivian and Ben out of the way without killing them – the last thing Murder House needed was a pair of vengeful parents stalking the halls.

He knew that there was existing tension between the two, could hear their fights filtering through the floorboards day and night. Ben already considered her unstable after Violet had denied seeing the ghosts in the car earlier that day. If he could just make Vivien snap, Ben would have her taken away to protect Violet. One down, one to go.

"Aww," a jeering voice came from the shadows. Tate glanced at Hayden and rolled his eyes. "Look at little Lord Fauntleroy, writing sorrowful sonnets in your head to that little nightingale bitch. _Adieu, nightingale_! Thy plaintive anthem fades."

"That's Keats," Tate sighed. Whatever it was Ben Harmon had seen in this nasally little crackjob was beyond him.

"Who gives a shit? You're like a girl, sulking down here in the basement instead of doing something about whats really bothering you."

"I'm tired," Tate replied through gritted teeth, "of hurting people."

"Do you want her to go away? Because Vivien booked their tickets, I heard her. You know what you have to do."

"Yeah, I do." He was speaking to himself, not to her. "I just have to prepare myself. It's not_ fun_." Tate felt himself flinch. He rarely spoke of aloud his plans to others like this. Something about verbalizing the violence made it a lot harder to dismiss as a necessary evil.

"You wanna fool around, while you work your way up to it?" Hayden asked. He glanced at her, and she kicked the crates out from under him. He pitched forward sharply to keep from losing his balance. "Come on."

He felt her cold hands slide over his chest as she straddled him on the chair. She smelled like old blood and desperation.

"I'm not into it," he said, looking away. Her hand slipped to his crotch.

"What is it about being dead that makes me so horny?" she murmured.

His hand was around her throat in a second, lifting her off him. "Quit it," Tate snarled. He rose, shoving her into the back wall. "I'm in love." He took a moment to enjoy the building fury in her pinched expression before turning and striding from the room.

"You'd better locate your balls before you go in there! That bitch is tough!" he heard her yell shrilly behind him.

~:~:~

The rubber suit had never felt so constrictive. The moment he touched it was like an electric shock. How much had changed since he'd last worn it?

It was late that night that Vivian finally went to bed, after frantically searching every inch of her room for intruders. She was already terrified, her hands shaking as she lifted the bedspread to peer under the mattress with a torch. This would be simple enough.

He waited until she had slipped into the blankets before stepping from the shadows into her line of sight. Vivian sprang up, scrabbling for the lamp. He disappeared again, moving to stand behind her as she ran to the curtains, hands still shaking.

Tate watched her turn before he made his move toward her. He reached for Vivien's neck, hesitating for just a moment. There wasn't really any need to hurt her, he realized – just her fear would be enough. He caught hold of her firmly, but not hard enough to cause pain, and shook her. Vivien pulled away with a scream, and he let go, stepping back into the shadows. She had her buzzer for the security guard in hand, and for a moment he watched her on the bed, her eyes frantically searching the room. She reached down and in the darkness it took Tate a moment to realize that she had a gun.

The bedroom door opened and Vivien screamed, aiming wildly at the door and pulling the trigger reflexively. Ben Harmon hit the ground.

The shot wasn't bad, but it'd done its work. Tate slipped by Ben and out the door. If he was lucky, he'd never have to wear this damned suit again.

~:~:~

He folded up the suit and put it in the corner of the basement, listening to the sound of police sirens overhead. Hayden had taken up residence on his favorite chair, which was irksome.

"Cute outfit. I see you pussied out from actually killing the bitch. Looks like that sensitive side's got the better of you."

Tate wondered if it was possible to hate somebody more than his mother.

"I don't want her ghost in the house. I'm trying to make her seem crazy enough for them to send her away from Violet."

"And you think some creepy S&M costume is going to be enough to send her into the waiting arms of the nuthouse? You've got to step up your game there, Langdon. I told you she's a tough bitch."

"It's not just a costume! It's – last time she saw it – she thought I was Ben. It's psychological trauma."

Hayden's eyes widened. "Hold up." She stopped rocking in her chair and stood slowly. "You're telling me that you fucked your girlfriend's _mom_?" Tate stiffened, and Hayden threw back her head with a scream of laughter. "Way to weird things up, kid. Is that why you wouldn't do me? You thought it'd be a bit much to bang a man's wife, daughter and mistress in the same house? Oh, this is just comedy gold."

He punched her so hard in the stomach her small body flew across the room and crumpled in a heap against the wall. In the opposite corner he heard Thaddeus whimpering nervously, and he restrained himself from going after her further. In a moment she was sitting up again, still giggling as blood poured from her nose.

"You know she's pregnant, with twins, right? You know you're probably gonna be a dad? Because I can bet sure as hell that unless she's doing that black security hunk, she and the man of the house haven't shared a bed in months, making you the proud daddy of two bouncing babies. How do you plan on explaining that clusterfuck to your little princess bride?"

Tate had stopped breathing. Months ago, this news was all he'd wanted to hear, when Nora had been his whole world. Now all he could feel was a cold, creeping sort of dread building in the pit of his stomach.

He left her on the floor without another word. It was going to be alright. They'd take Vivien away, now that she'd shot Ben. She'd be gone, and the babies would be gone, and Violet would never need to know. All of this could be forgotten.

Oddly, Hayden was screaming again. For a moment he wondered whether she was attacking Thaddeus, and he spun to reenter the basement when he realized that the sounds were coming from Vivien's room. His heart stopped.

He crossed the house in time to see Hayden standing at the foot of the bed, her face manic. She was watching the rubber man attacking Vivien on the floor. Hayden caught his eyes.

"He liked it so much the first time, he's going for round two!" she called out to the screaming woman.

Tate lunged at the person in the suit just as Ben flung open the door. In an instant he and Hayden were back in the basement, and he was grappling with the other figure on the floor. Reaching for the back of its head he ripped off the mask. His own face stared back at him.

"What the fuck?" he scrambled backward, watching himself sit up, rising off the floor.

"Pretty, isn't he? You'd be surprised how much he practices when you're too busy off with your girlfriend."

Suddenly the form shifted, and Thaddeus stood before him, the suit shriveling down to fit around his shrunken white body.

Tate staggered backward. "Thad..? You…you can do that without me?"

"He doesn't need you, honey. He's got a talent all of his own, don't you baby?" her arm slithered around the smaller boy's shoulders. Thaddeus didn't quite meet Tate's eyes.

"I can't deal with…this…right now. Why did you do that to Vivien? They were already taking her away, this is just-"

"Now they're even more sure that she's a wacko, and that her cheating husband isn't just trying to get her out of his life. Trust me. They're locking her away for good."

Tate rubbed his forehead with his fingers. "I need to go to go to Violet right now." Hayden snorted.

"Oh, good. Go, be the hero Gotham needs, Batman."

Tate crossed from the room, his mind reeling.

Violet and her father stood in the main foyer. He watched Ben kiss her on the head and leave through the front door – of course, Ben Harmon, father of the year wouldn't think to stay and comfort his troubled daughter after she'd seen her mother's mental breakdown. Tate walked softly behind her, leaned down to look into her eyes.

"It's okay," he said as cheerfully as he could manage. "I'm here." He put his arm gently around her shoulder. She still looked shocked, but in a moment she rested her head against his shoulder and gave a little sigh.


	13. Chapter 13

"Tate? Tate honey, it's Momma. I have to talk to you."

There was never anything that could put Tate in a sour mood quite like that slow Viriginian drawl. He rose languidly from his chair, stepping through to the woman on the other side of the basement.

"So talk."

"Oh, god." He'd startled her; she put a hand on his chest to steady himself. He didn't bother to flinch.

She reached for his cheeks, pulling his face close to her own. "Tell me it isn't true," she said urgently. "What I've been hearing about you."

His brow furrowed. "About what?"

"Your behavior! God, after all the missteps, we finally have somebody in this house that can help you." Tears were building in her eyes. "Tell me you did not crawl on top of that man's wife!"

Tate's breath caught in his throat. His eyes met Constance's, and she let out a sob.

"Momma" he pleaded, "Mom, you can't tell Violet, okay, please don't tell -"

He cried out as she lunged at him, beating him with the flats of her palms and the full force of her fists. He pulled his hands up to protect his chest – a knee-jerk throwback to the child Tate, protecting himself from another barrage of his mother's blows.

"What's wrong with you!" she screamed. "For god's sakes what's WRONG WITH YOU?"

Tate flung his hands over his head, sobbing. He was six again, protecting Addie from that damned mirror closet, his mother beating him mercilessly for smashing her crystal glasses to distract her from his sister.

"Don't you realize what you've done?" Constance yelled, slapping him across the face.

"Momma," he wept under her hands.

She pulled back, her hands over her mouth. Tate held his hands to his face, waiting to be hit again.

Constance's sobbing quieted; she crouched slowly and reached for his hands, her breath hitching as Tate pulled away in fear. "My boy, my boy. I'm sorry I lost my temper. Don't you know that you can't do that to a man's wife? You…you have a lovely little girl of your own. Why couldn't you…why couldn't you do that with her?"

"I'm sorry, Momma." Tate cried. The fear was leaving him, quickly replaced with the calm, calculating version of himself that he hadn't seen in a long while. In the corner the Bloodied Other had stepped into view.

He briefly considered his options. It wouldn't do to tell Constance that he'd done it for Nora – the other woman had always harbored a terrible jealousy for the relationship he shared with the gentle ghost. "I didn't…I just didn't understand. This house gets so..lonely..and I didn't really know Violet then."

He let her stroke his face, let her pull him towards her and laid his head on her shoulder. She ran her hands through his hair.

"There now, it'll be alright. Some…some good has come of this calamity. The Harmon woman is with child, Tate, and one is yours. I'm to have a grandson. A little baby."

"But s-she's been sent away, I saw them t-take her," he sniffed hopelessly. He'd always been an exemplary crier.

"Hush, hush now. I'll sort it out. We'll get her back to the murder house, and I'll take the..the precious miracle, I'll take him to my home and raise him myself. You'll never need worry. It's alright."

He clung to her, letting her hold him a while longer, before asking in his softest voice, "And you'll never tell Violet, mom? Promise?"

Constance pulled away slowly, looking into his wide, tearful eyes. "I'll never tell a living soul."

~:~:~

They were sending Violet back to school.

He'd known how foolish he'd been to think that they'd just leave her be; he'd been waiting for them to call her back in, but somehow it was hard for him to keep track of the days passing in this house.

He debated what to do. The charade that he was still a boy from the neighborhood that casually broke into her house on a regular basis was growing tedious, but he couldn't just appear in her room and bar her from the door.

He'd hesitated too long; she was already walking downstairs. He followed her, finally settling on a rehash of his Halloween prank – he clapped his hand over her mouth and his arms around her, pulling her back into the shadows away from the stairwell. Violet struggled frantically.

"Shh, shh, just listen to me, listen." Her nostrils flared, furious that he'd done it to her again. "Don't be mad. I love you." He smiled a little. "Spend the day with me. We can play scrabble if you want. I'll even let you win."

He removed his hand, and to his relief she didn't hit him.

"I can't. I promised my dad," she said, her tone unconvincing.

"So go tomorrow. It's not like they're gonna miss you for one more day." _And then what are you going to do? _Tate suppressed the little voice inside him.

She hesitated, and leaning down he pressed his lips against her own. She melted against his body. "Come on, Violet," he whispered, and smiled as she sighed, defeated.

They played scrabble and chess and cards in the attic where her father wouldn't find them, and for a while just lay on their backs analyzing the ceiling. For a short time Beau even joined in on a game of ball. It was good here, Tate thought, stroking the little hand that clasped his own. It never mattered what they did, he'd never be bored passing the long hours with her the way he'd once been with Thaddeus or even Nora.

There was a disturbance downstairs, and Tate listened cautiously. An unfamiliar voice was in the house, and it took him a moment to register that it was discussing blowflies and crawl spaces.

He gave a little gasp, and Violet turned to him. "What is it, Tate?"

"Nothing. I just- I forgot something downstairs. I think I might have left my bag there, and your dad could find it. I'll go grab it, give me a few minutes."

He rose and stepped quietly out of the door, turning to smile at her before he left.

~:~:~

He steeled himself for what he had to do. It was harder, now, to adopt the callous persona he'd once cultivated when necessity had driven him to the murders of the past. Pretending to be someone else had eased the sickness that the killings brought.

The man was rotund, a heavy ball in a yellow hazmat suit, struggling through the crawl space under the house. Tate followed him as he chased after the blowflies. He couldn't quite bear to look when the man found Violet. He'd not seen her body himself since Moira had put it under the house.

"Oh my god," he heard the man scream, and he recognized the moment. He snatched up the other man's flashlight and rushed at him, shining it in his face. "Bill," he snarled, recalling the name he'd heard used upstairs. "You're a murderer. You need to stay and repent for the countless innocent lives you've stolen." _Are you talking to Bill, or to yourself? _That nosy internal monologue was getting irritating.

He grabbed the poison meant for the vermin, plunging the end of the nozzle into the other man's mask and holding him as he struggled to breathe through the fumes. It didn't take long for the heavy body to stop wiggling.

He pulled back and breathed deeply, letting the feel of the kill run off his back like water. He wasn't like the others in the house; he couldn't bask in 'glory' of the murders as they did.

He dared to glance at the form several feet away, the glint of blonde hair catching the light of his flashlight. He didn't move forward, didn't want to see her like that, his little Violet.

Here, in the dank, stuffy little crawl space, it seemed as though the time was at last catching up with him. How many more days could he really keep her imprisoned in the house without her knowledge? One, two? What would happen when her father tried to forcibly drive her to school?

And at last, he had an idea.

It was time.

~:~:~

"Where've you been?" she called to him as he reentered the attic. "I just took your rook. Checkmate, 13 moves."

He paused, not looking at her. This would be easier if he didn't have to lie directly into those dewy great eyes of hers.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"He wants to separate us," he said slowly, tapping his thumb on the edge of his jeans. "He's going to send you away."

"What are you talking about?" Violet said, confused.

"I just heard him talking on the phone with a boarding school, asking about financial packages."

Violet gave a breathy laugh, but he saw tears fill her eyes. "Makes sense. He sent mom away. I don't know why I thought I was safe. I just assumed I was his little girl. What a fantasy." She was crying properly now, and he was glad of it, of the excuse to let himself show his own distress. "I'm so stupid and naïve sometimes. Of course he's gonna send me away too."

Tate went to sit with her, and she turned away from him to hide her tears. He reached gently for her hand. "There's nothing stupid about you. And I won't let him send you away." He paused, and then rose again. "I need you to give me a few minutes. I'm going to go talk to your dad."

She jumped to her feet, snatching at his hand. "Tate, no. You're not even supposed to be here."

"Violet, it's alright. Trust me. Just give me a few minutes, I'll be right back."

She let him go, her face still concerned.

~:~:~

Putting on the suit now was tortuous. Once it had given him the power to detach so completely that he could almost enjoy the killings; made him stronger, removed the limitations of his mind. Now it was a prison.

He found the ancient supply of chloroform and a small bag of pills that the dentist had kept in his basement, and coated one of Nora's handkerchiefs in the potent drug.

He waited until Ben was out of the shower before attacking him. He didn't want to kill him, but he did need to buy time. He couldn't be certain how Violet would react to his plan, but just in case he needed Ben unconscious.

He grabbed him around the neck, holding the kerchief to his face. The strength he'd once had in the suit was gone, and in the struggle with Ben he found himself scrabbling for purchase against the slick floors. The other man was stronger, and angrier. He threw Tate onto the floor against the bath.

"You sick son of a bitch. Show your face! Who are you?"

Tate lunged at him again, and they struggled violently, toppling into the adjacent bedroom. Ben staggered away from him, snatching up the metal lamp from the dresser. Tate paused momentarily.

"You raped my wife!" Ben roared, thrashing him with the lamp. The metal sliced through the suit to the skin. "You raped my wife! You raped my wife!"

Tate staggered backward under the blows. Ben wrenched him upright, grabbing hold of the mask and desperately trying to pull it off. Tate threw him backward, snatching up the handkerchief from where it had fallen and forcing it against Ben's mouth once more.

He felt Ben's hands scrabbling with the mask at the back of his head, but he couldn't risk letting go now, as the other man was quickly losing consciousness. He felt the cool air on his head as the mask slid off, and he looked up in time to meet the Ben's shocked gaze in the mirror.

"Tate," heaved Ben in disbelief. They stared at one another for half a moment.

"VIOLET!" the other man screamed. Tate clung to his neck, felt the fight fade from Ben's limbs. He let him drop to the floor.

"The only reason I'm not killing you is for her," he snarled into Ben's ear. "You'll just take a little nap, and it'll all be over."

He left him unconscious on the floor, snatching up an extra bottle of pills from Ben's study on his way back upstairs.

Violet looked agitated when he returned to the attic. He lifted himself through the hatch with difficulty, feeling the bruises swelling on his torso.

"What'd you do to him?" she demanded.

"I just…convinced him to leave us alone for an hour or so."

"Tate, what'd you do to him?" she yelled.

"I didn't do anything bad! I just scared him a little. He'll be fine. But we're running out of time."

"You're being weird, time for what?"

"I figured out how to keep them from sending you away," he said urgently.

"You mean running away?"

"Kind of. Yeah. I love you, Violet. And I want you to be happy, and free." He held out the pills he'd taken from the dentist's stash downstairs. "If we take these, we can stay here. We can play with Beauregard. We can play games, watch videos. We can be together, forever."

"You want us to commit suicide?" she said breathlessly, her eyes huge.

"Yeah," Tate replied. "I don't think there's enough in here to really, you know, so I think if we use these-"

"Where did you get those pills?"

"Your dad has a lot of samples,"

"Did you hurt my dad?" she exclaimed.

"No, I told you!" Tate yelled, pulling away. They were running out of time; he didn't know how long the chloroform was going to last. "I just knocked him out so I could buy us some time! Listen to me, Violet. We can't get all chickenshit about this. We're running out of options!"

She stared at him, but she wasn't crying. Slowly, she nodded.

"Yeah, okay, I get it. It's the only way we can be together."

He breathed a sigh of relief, pulling her to him to kiss her hard on the mouth. "Like Romeo and Juliet," he said with a grin. "I know how to do it so that it won't hurt," he added.

She paused. "Can we do it in the bathtub?"

Tate's heart lurched. That she would remember that, that she'd want to be there in this moment now of all times. "Why?"

"Because it's warm, and nice, and…I can light some candles," she said desperately. She was frightened, and he relented. He didn't want her to be afraid.

"Okay," he said, "but we have to go now."

"I'll go run the bath," she said, moving away from him. He watched her climb out of the attic, and allowed himself a moment to breathe. She would go for it, and this would be alright. She'd never need to know what she'd done.

"HELP, DAD, HELP ME, HE'S TRYING TO KILL ME!"

Tate gasped in horror. "Violet, no!" he yelled, sprinting after her.

He raced down the stairs, where she stood screaming for her father at the bottom. Spotting him she turned, racing to fling open the door and rush outside.

He pulled back, watching her run to the gate, screaming at the people on the street that couldn't see her. He backed away from the door, into the kitchen, waiting.

She ran through the door, then pulled herself up sharply, disoriented. He held out his hands, trying to calm her down.

"What's happening?" she sobbed. "What'd you do to me?"

He approached her slowly. "You have to stop. Let's just do what we said we would."

"Dad, where are you?" she screamed, dashing to the kitchen door. "Help me!"

He followed her, feeling sick to his stomach. "Violet,' he pleaded hopelessly. "Stop running,"

She didn't listen, but continued to attempt to flee. He leant against the bannister of the stairs, waiting as she ran in desperate circles through the house. Her sobs cut him to his core.

She stopped at last in front of him, and he stepped slowly toward her. "Please, Tate," she begged. "Please, I don't wanna die."

He sighed. "It's too late for that," he said softly, attempting to keep his voice even. He watched the horror dawning on her face. She slid to the floor, clutching handfuls of hair between her fingers. He went to her, kneeling until he was at eye height.

"Violet, listen to me," he said gently.

"Why am I running around like a crazy person?" she moaned. "Did you drug me?"

He felt tears fill his eyes at the sting of her accusation. "I'm not gonna hurt you. I have to show you something, and then you're free to go wherever you want. I promise I won't stop you." He rose to his feet. "You have to trust me." He held out his hand and waited, and at last she took it gingerly.

Tate led her to the basement, to the little latched door that opened onto the crawl space.

"I feel weird. I feel like I'm losing it."

He looked at her, but couldn't bring himself to speak. What could he say to her now?

Tate hoisted himself into the crawl space first, so that she wouldn't be as frightened of following him. He turned on the flashlight that he'd left at the entrance. "Come on," he called back to her quietly.

It wasn't a long trip. The steady hum of the blowflies guided him back to the place he'd been only a little earlier.

The light of the flashlight caught the bones of a long-dead rat on the floor, and Violet screamed for a moment before realizing what it was. She hit the floor, angry with herself. "It's so disgusting down here," she cried.

They'd reached the standing area of the crawl space, and he jumped down. "Come on," he said, reaching to help her down. A horrible sort of finality had settled upon him. There was no turning back now.

"Close your eyes," he said, not unkindly. "And remember. Everything's gonna be okay. I love you."

He bit his lip, and pulled her after him. The light of the flashlight shone ghostly blue on the little body on the floor. Tate took a deep breath.

"Open your eyes."


	14. Chapter 14

For a moment, she didn't seem to understand what she was looking at. He waited.

Violet gave a despairing little intake of breath, and then came that crying – a soft, heartbroken keening that tore him in two. As much as it pained him he didn't reach for her, understanding that she needed to face the realization of it alone.

She ran her hands through her hair, comprehension dawning on her face. "I died when I took all those pills," she gasped.

Tate swallowed and nodded. "I tried to save you, I did." he said over the disconsolate weeping.

Horrible images – Violet in his lap, cold hands falling limp in his arms – flashed through his mind. He hadn't let himself think of that day since it'd happened, but here, with her soul and her body in the dank little crawlspace, it was impossible to stop the memories flooding back.

"I tried to make you throw them up. You threw up some. Not enough." He felt a sob leave his own throat. "You took _so many_, Violet. You died crying. I held you. You were safe. You died…loved. "

He wondered if she could even hear him. "I hardly feel anything," she whimpered, backing away from the corpse on the floor, her back hitting the stone wall behind her.

"I didn't want you to find out this way, Violet. You or your parents." He was babbling now, like he had the night he'd first told her he loved her. Filling the silence with his explanations, for fear of what she might say instead. "I had this idea, that if you chose to die, with me…you wouldn't be so sad. I never wanted you to see this. I'm so sorry, Violet."

Tate tried to hold back, told himself that she wouldn't want to be touched, but he couldn't help it. It just seemed wrong not to have her in his arms when she was crying. He reached for her shivering shoulders, cradling her in his arms, burying his face in the soft hair that still smelled of lilacs.

Soon, too soon, she was pulling away, but to his relief she clung to his jumper, still wet with her tears. "Can we get…can we get away from here?"

"Of course."

He led her back out of the crawl space and basement on foot. It would be too much for her at this point to know that she could easily step from one room to another in the house, he reasoned. Later, when the shock had died off.

They lay together in the bed for hours, watching the light change as it filtered through the slats of the window. Violet cried a little, but mostly just lay with her head resting on his chest, her fingers picking at the fibers of his sweater, and he listened to her breathing as it slowed back into a normal pace.

"You're dead too." Violet broke the silence after a long while. Her voice was raw from her earlier crying, but it didn't tremble. She wasn't asking him a question; she knew with certainty.

Tate hesitated, unsure of quite how to respond, still frightened of pushing her over the edge. "How did you find out?"

"Constance told me. After…on Halloween, I went over to her house, and she told me that you…she said you didn't know that you were dead."

Tate smirked. "I've always known. I just…my mother and I don't exactly get along. I sort of like messing with her. Quite a bit. I kind of dedicate a lot of time to it."

Violet rose slowly, stepping to the window with her arms crossed. Tate moved to sit on the floor, picking up the cards they'd left on the carpet and shuffling them absently.

"So…all this time, I thought I was protecting you, but you were protecting me."

Briefly, he wondered what it had been like for her; coming to terms with the idea that this strange boy that showed up in her bedroom was a ghost. He marveled at the fact that somehow, impossibly, she'd stayed. "That's all I ever wanted to do, since I first saw you."

"So why'd you keep it a secret?" she asked, moving from the window to sit cross-legged on the floor beside him.

He grinned ruefully."Hi. I'm Tate. I'm dead. Wanna hook up? I don't think so."

Violet smiled briefly, but she was clearly still lost in thought. "I still don't remember dying," she said. Her voice sounded more curious than sad. "Do you?"

"Nope," he said cheerfully. Of course, this wasn't strictly true, but now wasn't the time. He began dealing cards to the pair of them.

"What happens now?"

"You draw a card, and discard," he said with a grin, and she laughed at him.

"No, I mean…like how's it gonna be?"

He shrugged. It was important to make her feel safe, normal. "Just like this. Like it's always been."

She looked at him with consternation, and he smiled softly. "It's you and me. Together for always."

They looked at one another for a moment, and then to his relief Violet reached for her cards. Tate felt a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth again, as the terrible weight he'd been carrying for weeks lifted from his heart. She knew now. Everything was going to be all right.

~:~:~

Early the next morning he left her for a few minutes, promising a quick return. There was one last thing to take care of, so that he could begin this new life with Violet free of any lingering fears.

He re-entered the familiar basement, stepping through the thick dust on the floor to the annex where he could usually find Nora. Thaddeus had been playing here – with a surge of nostalgia, Tate recognized the faded green and yellow of his favorite childhood truck, the one he'd been playing with the very day he met Thaddeus and Nora.

He heard weeping, and looked up anxiously. Nora was sobbing to herself in the annex.

"Who are you?"

"It's me, Tate." He'd never quite gotten over the sting he felt when she forgot him. "Life's too short for so much sorrow," he reminded her.

"You're wrong," she moaned. "It's an eternity. Just the endless days and nights of longing…where's my baby?" her face contorted once more.

Tate sighed, leaning down to put the truck back on the ground. He hated this, hated what he had to do to the beautiful, mad woman that had once been his whole world. "That's what I want to talk to you about."

"You promised me. You made one, w-with her, the uh, the lady of the house." It was always curious, the few memories that her fragmented mind clung to. He'd dared to hope that she might've forgotten.

"Vivien," he corrected sternly. "That's Violet's _mother_. And I can't give you that baby any more. Everything's changed, Nora. I'm in love with Violet."

Her damp, wide eyes gazed at him in hurt surprise. "I see," she said slowly.

He tried to rephrase it into terms she'd understand. "I just can't…take her brother away." His mind shied away from the concept. Not his child, he told himself quickly. Vivian's son. Vivian and Ben.

"But I can," she replied coldly, and Tate felt a shiver run down his spine at the steel in her voice. "And I will." She stepped closer to him, ran her fingers down the familiar line of his cheek. "That baby is mine."

He opened his mouth to argue, to reason with her, but she'd already disappeared.

~:~:~

Things were better now that the great secret was out.

They didn't follow the old order of time any more. Like the others, Violet was learning not to notice the passage of the hours, whether it was day or night, which day was which.

He let her meet several of the nicer ghosts, letting Hayden know on no uncertain terms that if she came near Violet she'd have him to answer to. There was a slightly awkward re-introduction between Violet and Moira, which in hindsight Tate realized was probably exacerbated by his cheerful "Remember that time you saw her hitting on your dad? She's actually dead too!"

He taught her the best ways to step through rooms and floors of the house without feeling nauseous. Mostly he quizzed her about the world outside, now that it wouldn't weird her out to realize just how little he knew of the present day. She made the early mistake of throwing him to the mercy of the internet.

~:~:~

Tate sat on Violet's bed, listening to her yell at her father as he dragged her downstairs. They'd already known this was coming; he'd told her what to expect if they took her out of the gates. She'd told him to wait for her in the bedroom; he guessed that she was still frightened of him being around her father after the incident with the chloroform, however noble his intentions had been.

He moved to the window when he heard the front door slam, watched them get into the car. He caught Violet's eyes from the back seat, and they nodded at one another. He went back to the bed.

One of the perks of Violet knowing how many years and technological advances he'd missed was that she was now showing him slowly how to use her things. He liked her laptop, although the scope of the internet baffled him, and he couldn't remember all the weird words and acronyms she was so fond of.

He felt the air in the room change; Violet had returned.

"What's gonna happen when they get back? What do I say?" she came to sit next to him on the bed, staring at him hard.

He ignored what he knew by now was a condescending look: apparently the way he typed bugged her to no end. How he was supposed to flick his fingers across the keyboard at the speed of light like she did was just beyond him.

"It's not 'U-Tube' with a U, it's YouTube. Y-O-U." she said wearily.

"Oh." Tate gave a small, self-conscious smile.

"If they find out I killed myself they'll go insane. Literally. For real this time. They can't know."

She'd been running fruitlessly through this same conversation with him for the last several hours, and Tate sighed resignedly. "You can't control them forever. I mean, it is what it is, Violet."

She looked at him and changed the subject. "One of these days this computer will be obsolete. People will have microchips implanted in their brains or something, and we won't be able to watch YouTube or anything. We'll be like all the others here. Prisoners in a windowless cell. Who's going to show me the new ways of the world? Nobody here is happy, Tate."

He reached for her hand. "Yeah, but they're not like us. They're lonely. We have each other." It frightened him when she spoke like this. He knew it was just cabin-fever; he'd been frustrated too with the reality of spending eternity in the house during his first few months.

"We'll never have kids."

Tate suppressed a sigh. It must be a funny little quirk that the house threw in for good measure: every female seemed to harbor a desperate desire for children.

He was grateful of a sound outside to break the tension. Ironically, it was the soft chimes of a child's lullabye, coming from the spare room near Violet's.

"What's that?" Violet asked.

He put down the laptop, and in a moment they'd stepped through to the doorway of the other room.

The room look liked it'd been vomited on by a pastel alien. Chad was stamping crude little pictures of African animals along the walls, while Patrick was on the floor painting something blood red. The gays were renovating, apparently. So it was that time of year again.

"Who asked you to decorate the nursery?" Violet demanded.

Chad looked down on her coldly. "Let me break it down for you, sweetheart. This is our house, and, we're having twins."

"Who's your surrogate? One of those nurses in the basement?"

"No! No. A very very human surrogate, Elvira. Your lovely mother."

"You think you can just steal those twins? You pathetic homos couldn't steal the shit out of your own ass." Tate interjected.

Chad and Patrick laughed derisively.

"You know what," said Violet, "It doesn't matter. As soon as my parents get back we're leaving here." Patrick's eyebrows raised, and Tate glanced down as she corrected herself. "They're leaving. So knock yourselves out."

"Honey," Chad sneered, "Your parents aren't going anywhere as long as you're stuck here."

"Don't get all snotty, little sister. You'll be begging to babysit," added Patrick. "As big as this place is it does get very lonely."

"It could get ugly, though," said Chad. A cruel smile played at the corners of his mouth. "Were you a C-section? Is there an existing zipper we might use?"

Violet stiffened, and Tate lurched toward the other man. "Watch it, you goddamned queen."

"Ooh!" Patrick intoned. "I am quaking in my loafers." He leant toward Tate with a knowing grin. "What're you going to do? Kill me?" his eyes flickered menacingly toward Violet, and Tate swallowed. To his relief, Chad said nothing else, turning back to the painted wall. Violet spun on her heel and marched out of the room, and with a last, stony look at Chad Tate followed her.

They returned to the bedroom, where Violet sat on the bed, her hands twisting nervously. "Tate, they're going to hurt my mom and my little brothers."

He knelt down to meet her eye line. "Violet, it's okay. I'm not going to let anything happen to them."

She shook her head, frightened. "You heard them. They're making a nursery, for fuck's sake. They're serious, Tate. We have to get rid of them."

Tate sighed. "Violet, you can't _kill_ ghosts. It doesn't matter what you do to them; in a few minutes they always come right back to life. It's the curse of this house."

"I don't mean killing them. I mean getting rid of them. Like…like an exorcism or some shit."

"I don't know how to do that. Do you?"

She looked thoughtful. "I don't, but your mother might. There's that psychic chick she's friends with. She can actually see ghosts, properly. She might know something."

Violet's face was resolute, and in a moment Tate nodded. "I'll have Moira signal Constance. She always comes in through the back door; go down to the kitchen to meet her."

He rose and kissed her on the forehead before crossing to find Moira.


	15. Chapter 15

_I am so sorry for the terribly long hiatus! I've been moving and too busy to update, but I promise I'll get back to posting both this and the Boy in the Basement stories as normal from now on._

_-Cas_

~:~:~

Tate let Violet speak to Billie Dean and his mother alone.

He caught a glimpse of the other woman as she entered the house: elegant, stately, hair and makeup perfectly in order. The only personality traits, Tate thought, that one really needed to endear themselves to Constance Langdon.

He waited for Violet upstairs, but after an hour with no word from her, he felt himself growing impatient. In a moment he stood in the shadows beyond the drawing room, listening to Billie Dean's soft voice rising with fervor.

"The force here in this house is larger than the many individual traumas, and it has a need. It wants to break through; it wants to move in our world. It's using those trapped between this world and the next as conduits."

"That's very interesting." Constance's voice interrupted. "But what do we do about the gays? I mean, how do we get rid of them?"

"Oh, there might be a way," he heard Billie Dean reply, and Tate stepped forward, into the doorway of the drawing room. "I can't promise-"

Her voice trailed off suddenly.

_Get out._

Tate thought for a second that she'd said it aloud; a moment later he realized the voice was in his head.

"He can't be here," she called out loudly to Violet and Constance.

_Who are you? _he thought curiously.

_I am here to help. I cannot help you. You are an abomination. _The voice in his head was not overtly cruel, but it was terribly stern.

"Tate," he heard Violet say softly.

"Billie Dean, that's my boy. That's Tate," said Constance quietly.

_You must leave. _

He hesitated a moment, then replied aloud. "I want to help."

"You've helped enough." Her voice was cutting.

"Not now, Tate. Go on." Constance whispered.

Tate glanced from her to Violet, then back to Billie Dean.

_I know what you are. I know what you have done._

The medium's voice followed him as he left the room.

~:~:~

Tate paced Violet's room anxiously, Billie Dean's last remark reverberating through his head. That hadn't just been a random dislike. What did the woman know? Who did she think he was?

He heard Violet return, and his head snapped up. She wasn't looking at him.

"What'd she say?" Tate asked.

"We have to get something of his. Something important. An heirloom or a ring…like a talisman. If we have the talisman and we do this special ritual, they'll be gone."

Tate nodded dismissively. "That sounds like bullshit." He turned away from her, resuming his pacing.

"Billie Dean's for real. She studies this stuff. The bigger guy, he wears a ring; it's like a wedding ring, but I don't remember which hand it's on."

"I don't trust her," Tate snapped. "And why'd she say all the stuff about me?"

Violet's face twitched slightly. Whatever it was - she knew.

"I did something bad, didn't I?" Tate said slowly.

She took a breath. "Let's just get the ring."

~:~:~

Tate agreed to deal with Patrick, the larger of the two. He found him back in the nursery, still painting the walls. Tate stood behind the door for a moment, rolling his shoulders back and easing the tension from his neck. It'd been a while since he had to lie properly. He had to adjust back into it.

He adopted an easy swagger as he stepped through the door.

"How's it work?" he asked nonchalantly. "Will the kid call you both daddy, or is one of you the mom?"

Patrick rose to his feet warily. Tate pulled out his most charming smile, holding up his hands. "I'm just messing with you. Seriously, though. Are you ready for all this? I mean you never struck me as the diapers and midnight feedings type."

"Maybe you should've taken a few minutes to get to know me before you stuck a fireplace poker up my ass." Patrick retorted, turning back to the wall.

Tate paused. "Fair enough." He changed his tack. "Look, we're all gonna be here for a long time, so…maybe we could figure out a way to let bygones be bygones, and, you know. Cohabitate."

"I'm _dead_ because of you!" the larger man snarled.

"There's gotta be something I can offer you," Tate pressed. "I mean, just because we're dead doesn't mean we don't have wants." He ran his fingers along the slightly phallic railings of the blood-red crib. He watched with satisfaction as Patrick almost imperceptibly turned toward him. "Desires." He moved around the crib, into the corner where the other man knelt.

"Marriage looks hard," he continued. "Especially to _that_ guy. Always on you all the time…and never in the ways you want, right?" he closed the distance between them, hyperaware of how uncomfortably close Patrick's face was to his crotch. He restrained himself from a shiver of disgust. Nobody raised by Constance could have a particularly positive attitude to these people.

He was close, now, though, too close to back out. He pressed his advantage.

"It must _suck_ to have to wait till Halloween every year to get a little…strange." He held Patrick's gaze in his own.

The other man rose slowly, and Tate let his lips part, staring up at him with wide eyes. They stood for a moment.

He felt Patrick's body move the same moment that the other man's head collided with his own. Tate staggered backward into the cupboard.

"I can't kill you, but I can make you suffer!" yelled the other man, striking him forcefully in the face. "And the best part is, when I'm done you'll heal up, and I can beat the shit out of you all over again."

Tate felt warm blood trickle from his nose, and giggled.

Patrick's fist struck his stomach, and Tate fell forward on his hands and knees.

"Harder," he snarled, turning back to the other man. "I like it rough."

"It's not supposed to be like this!" Patrick yelled. He kicked him so hard in the stomach that Tate fell once more. "I'm not supposed to be here!" he grabbed Tate by the base of his skull, dragging him back to his feet. "Look at me! LOOK AT ME! I was gonna get out!" He slammed Tate back into the wall, bringing his knee up into his groin.

Tate could barely see; the room had started to spin. Through the throbbing haze of blurred vision, he felt for the other man's hand, for the cool metal band around his finger. He gripped tightly. Another blow, and Tate fell to the floor, tangled in their painting sheets, bringing the painting pots and ornaments crashing down around him, the ring safely clutched in his fist. Tate grinned ferociously.

"I fell in love, God help me, I was gonna get out, and be with him, and then you killed me and now I'm stuck here, with _him_!" Patrick roared.

He was silent suddenly, and Tate followed his gaze. Chad stood in the doorway.

"Chad," he heard Patrick whisper in horror. The other man turned and ran from the door, and Patrick followed.

Tate breathed heavily, the sharp pain around his ribcage already dwindling. He held the ring up to the light and chuckled aloud.

~:~:~

He waited on the floor of Violet's room, tossing the ring in the air and catching it between his fingers. After several minutes, she returned.

"What'd you get?" he asked eagerly.

She held up a heavy gold watch with a satisfied smile. "He took it off to paint. Why does a ghost need a watch?"

They both jumped at the sudden knocking on Violet's door.

"Violet!" came Ben Harmon's voice. Tate rose to his feet. "Violet! You disappeared on me, what the hell happened?"

Violet glanced back at him, her eyes wide, and motioned for him to disappear. Tate stepped backward into the basement, bumping straight into his mother.

"Tate?" she gasped, clutching his shirt. "Oh, my boy. You nearly gave me a heart attack."

"What're you still doing here?" he asked stonily, stepping back from her.

"Oh, you know." She ran her fingertips over several new rings on her left hand. "Just having a little sticky beak. Word on the street is the Harmons won't be staying with us much longer. Didn't want to let the opportunity slide away." She examined her new jewelry with ravenous eyes, and Tate gazed at her with disdain.

"How are you, Tate? I had a little…rendezvous with your girl this afternoon. Bright child. Are the two of you well?"

"Yes." He paused, then looked up at her.

"I want you to bring Addie again. It'll be good for Violet to have another friend. She already gets along with Beau and Thad; I think they'll like each other."

His mother's face had paled, and Tate rolled his eyes. "Don't start talking shit about Thaddeus again. He's perfectly harmless. Just as much one of the family as anyone else in this hell hole."

"No, Tate, it isn't…Tate, there's something that I've been…that I've neglected to tell you."

Her hands were shaking, and Tate's brow furrowed. "What?"

Constance took an unsteady breath and stepped toward him. Tate lifted his chin and she stopped in her tracks. "I didn't want to…to upset things. Everything was going so nicely for you, I just wanted to protect you."

"Are you going to tell me what you're babbling about, or should I get comfortable?"

"Oh, Tate, its…on the night of Halloween, Addie…Addie met with a terrible calamity. She was crossing the street, she wasn't looking, she…the car didn't even stop. I was too late, I came just as the ambulances arrived."

Tate felt the back of his neck grow hot. "Addie's dead?"

Constance brushed a hand across her eyes. "Yes. Tate, I'm so sorry."

He stepped backward. "I haven't seen her. Why didn't she come to me?" he turned around, staring into the shadows. "Addie!" he called loudly. "Addie! This isn't hide and seek! Come out!"

He felt Constance's hand on his shoulder and brushed her off. "Addie!"

"Tate, I was too late. She'd already gone by the time…I dragged her to the lawn in front of the house, but she was gone. Apparently it was an instant death."

He turned on her, quivering with rage. "You did it, didn't you? Did you push her, or did you just bait her until she jumped in front of the car herself?"

Constance reeled, her shock palpable. He stepped toward her as she moved backward, away from him.

"I bet that's exactly what happened. She stepped in front of a car just to get away from you. All the shit you talk about her, all your bitchy little insults and inane bullshit. I'll bet she couldn't wait to be free of you."

"Stop it!" Constance sobbed, holding her hands over her face.

Tate flung her back into the wall and stalked from the room. Blood pounded behind his eyes; he could barely see that he'd stepped back into Violet's room, empty now of her or her father. For a while he paced the floor, too stormy with anger to sit still.

All in a moment the realization hit him: she was dead, his Addie, his sister, and she wasn't going to live with him forever in the house. He'd always known that she'd die, some day; in a way he'd look forward to it. She'd be with him, and she wouldn't be helpless anymore. Nobody would need to hurt her.

Where was she? Where did people _go _when they didn't die in the house? Was she happy there? She was on her own, wherever she was – all the people either of them had ever cared about lived in the mansion. Addie was the only one to really – truly – cross over to the other side.

Intermittently through the frenzied mire of his thoughts he could hear commotion downstairs: the familiar sound of Vivien's screams puncturing the oppressive silence of the house. He could feel the other spirits gathering: some that had stayed dormant in the shadows for years, venturing forth into the world of the living once more. This must be it, this must be the night – Vivien would be having her babies downstairs. His baby.

It was too much; Tate shied away from it, curling up on Violet's bed, he buried his nose in the pillows, comforting himself with the scent of her, allowing a memory of Addie laughing, as he'd seen her in the last spring of his life, to fill his mind. He'd keep her like this, his gentle sister, here in his mind as the pretty girl she'd always dreamed of being. It was all he could give her now.

How long Violet stood at the end of the bed, watching him in silence, he didn't know.


	16. Chapter 16

He saw her out of the corner of his eye at last. He felt the terrible weight on his heart ease a little. Violet would fix him again. She always did.

He lifted his head off the pillows to smile at her.

"My mom is dead." Her voice was cold.

Tate moved down the bed toward her. "I'm so sorry," he said softly. "I know you were close." He reached for her hand, but Violet jerked it away. He looked up at her in surprise.

"Yeah." She backed away from him, and he felt his heart skip a beat. "We were. My dad's down there all alone now."

She was just frightened. This was how she processed shock – she hadn't wanted to touch him when she'd first seen her corpse, either. Tate climbed over the end of the bed and stepped toward her again. This time she held her ground.

"That makes me sad," Tate said gently. "I like your dad. He was nice to me."

"He's nice to all of his patients," she quipped, "even the ones who lie to him."

"What?" her tone was off, wrong.

"Why'd you start seeing him in the first place? Constance thought you needed help."

"I did. I do!"

"You knew you were dead."

So this was it. Tate bit his lip and looked down. "Yeah."

"Do you know why?"

It was strange. He'd never been able to answer this question the same twice, somehow. It was as though there were more sides to the story, as though he'd lived two versions of the same event. The ends of the memory didn't match up.

"The cops shot me. Right here in this room." He recited, feeling the familiar fuzziness as he tried to piece out the past. That wasn't right though, was it? He couldn't remember being shot.

"Why?" Violet pressed. "Why did they shoot you?"

He tried to force the memory, but the harder he concentrated the more blurred the lines became. He shook his head desperately. "I don't know." He could see it in her eyes: the terrible truth, the thing that haunted him. He wanted to run from her, from that look. He held his ground, waited.

"You murdered people, Tate. Kids. Like us. The kids that came to us on Halloween."

Tate shook his head again, feeling tears obscure his vision, spill onto his cheeks. "Why would I do that?" he asked, keeping his voice low. She knew him. He'd held her when she died. How could she think this of him? "Why would I do that?"

Her face was impassive; that coldness he'd heard in her voice had taken over now. She stared back at him pitilessly.

"Why would I do that?" he sobbed desperately. "Why would I _do_ that?"

"I don't know," she said, her voice dangerously soft. "Why would you kill those guys who lived here before us?"

_No. _

His heart dropped. She knew.

"Why would you rape my _mother_?"

"No," he whispered. He took a breath. "I'm sorry."

Her eyebrows rose in disbelief, and she shook her head at him.

"I'm sorry!" he sobbed. "I was different then!"

Violet gave a derisive laugh. "I used to think you were like me," she said bitterly. "You were attracted to the darkness. But Tate…you are the darkness."

"No." He shook his head again, stepping back from her. He didn't know this Violet. His Violet was warm, and kind. She would never look at him like that. She would never hate him like this.

He felt like a man pleading for his life. "Before you that's all there was." Her chin rose defiantly, but still he moved toward her, locking his gaze with her own. "You are the only light I've ever known. You've changed me, Violet."

She relented slightly: her hand reached up to stroke his face, and he leaned into her embrace, smiling beatifically. "I believe that," she whispered. "I love you, Tate."

He felt his heart all but burst through his chest: a thrill of heat radiated down his arms, through his spine. Tate let out a tiny moan.

"But I can't forgive you." As fast as it'd come, the ecstasy dissipated, replaced with a cold dread that gripped his heart. She was pulling away from him, back into the shadows. Her face was merciless once more.

"You have to pay for what you did. All the pain you caused? All the sorrow? You murdered my mother!"

"No!" he cried.

"You did!" Violet yelled, and he shrunk back from her, hanging his head. "That baby? Whatever it was, it killed her! I can't be with you. I _won't_ be with you." She shook her head, backing away from him.

Tate clung to the bottom of his shirt, stepping after her nervously. "What are you saying?" he asked in a voice that trembled.

"I'm saying go away."

He felt it like a blow: the force of the command knocked him back. "What?" he cried in horrified disbelief, fighting against the terrible compulsion that dragged him from the room. "No! Don't do this!"

"Go away, Tate," she called again.

"You're all I want!" he screamed. "YOU'RE ALL I HAVE!"

"GO AWAY!" she yelled, and he cried out once more, reaching for her against the power of the house, clinging to her for one more second, one more heartbeat.

It was too strong: the strength drained from his arms, left him dizzy and weak. For an instant more, he stood in her room, and then she was gone, and he was alone in the darkness of the basement, the cold that had gripped his heart now taking over his body, consuming him from the inside out.

There was nothing left. He was emptiness. His Violet wanted nothing more of him. He disgusted her. She hated him. She _detested_ him.

He felt small claws clutching at him, and glanced down into Thaddeus' wide eyes.

As if on cue, callous laughter filled the basement.

"So she finally manned up and told you where to stick it, huh?"

He was barely aware that he'd reached for her, but in a moment Tate had Hayden pinned to the ground by her throat, his fingers squeezing he windpipe with all the force in his body.

Hands gripped him from behind, and Tate felt himself lifted from the girl and thrown to the floor. He rolled over in confusion, staring at Thaddeus in shock.

"Thad! What the fuck are you doing?"

Hayden lifted herself from the ground, her breathy laugh wheezing a little through her damaged throat. "Oh, you didn't think he was going to put up with being your afterthought forever, did you, Tate? That's a little conceited, even for you."

Tate stared from one to the other in bewilderment. "He's my _brother_! You're nothing!"

"Oh, I'm nothing? Who's the one he can come and talk to? Who's the one he can tell when he's having a bad day, when Tate's too busy with his little girlfriend? Who's the one-" she hesitated for a moment, her eyes widening with glee. "Who's the one he tells his secrets to, the big ones, the ones so fucking insane they'd send you mad?"

Tate covered his face with his hands. He didn't want this, not now, not after all that had happened. "Can you just FUCK OFF?"

Hayden knelt beside him, her smile widening. "No, I don't think I can," she said softly. "You see, I think it's about time that people started appreciating our little man's legacy a bit more. He's got a few latent talents up his sleeve that I think demand a little more RESPECT." Her fist collided with his face out of nowhere, and Tate fell backward once more.

"Do you want to tell him, Thad, or should I?" Hayden cried, her face manic. She bounced to her feet, circling Tate like an overzealous little vulture. "This is your moment, after all. I don't want to spoil the glory."

"What are you talking about?" Tate yelled at her dancing silhouette.

"Tell us how you died, Tate! The real story, not the one you read in the papers. Not the one you learned to parrot from Constance. How'd you die?" she was closing in now, taunting him in that singsong voice that drove him wild with rage.

"I got shot!"

"Before that, before that! How'd you die? What did you do?"

"I was-I was angry, I don't know, I was..I was mad…"

"And you went to your room! What did you do, Tate?"

"I took…I took some drugs, and then…I don't…"

"That's it! Caput! Game over! You overdosed, you little bitch! PORTION CONTROL, TATE. You died in a pool of your own vomit, wriggling on the floor like a worm. Just like your little girlfriend. Didn't you get some freaky flashbacks the day you found her there? Didn't the whole situation strike you as PRETTY FUCKING IRONIC?"

He stared at her in shock, feeling the pieces fall into place. "I don't…I was shot-"

"Where are the bullet holes, then? Where's your battle scars?" she reached forward with cold fingers, ripping his shirt aside, scratching the smooth, unblemished skin of his stomach with her nails.

"What does it matter? What the fuck is this?" he demanded.

Hayden straightened, breathing heavily, her eyes bright with excitement. "That's where our boy came in, Tate. This was his big chance. There you were, and there was a perfectly good body, going to waste on the floor. He knew what the outside world was like, because you'd told him for years. He knew what you wanted, because you'd told him your fantasies, told him how you even collected guns, told him about all the little bitches that you wanted to die. He was doing you a _favour, _Tate. He was cleaning up the mess you'd been too much of a pussy to sort out yourself."

"Stop it." Tate felt ill. He struggled back to his feet, pulling away from her.

"Don't you remember the stories you'd tell him, Tate? He actually wanted to go the whole hog, wanted to paint up his face like a monster and everything, but he ran out of time. Either way, he knew how to use the guns. Learnt everything from you."

"Those were – those were stories, I was being an idiot. They were just fantasies. It was never meant…I never wanted…"

"Well you didn't tell him that, did you? All he knew was that you were dead, and at last he had a chance to take care of everything for you. He took over your body, went straight to the man that you'd told him so many horrible things about. Set him on fire, burnt him like he burnt his family. That one was personal – don't you know? That he's friends with those three burning dames that walk around with the scorch marks and the live coals? That one was for them. But the kids, the school – that was for you, all for you."

Tate stared at Thaddeus in horror. The little white creature crouched at Hayden's feet, his black eyes fixed on Tate's own, the tiniest of smiles playing at his lips.

"No," Tate whispered.

"He shot up the school just like you told him, and then he came home and waited. He stayed in the body just long enough until the authorities came and shot your corpse to bits. Then he went back into his own body to wait for you in the basement. He was ever so proud of himself, weren't you, Thad? And for the first time he'd gotten to see the world outside, the horrible, evil world you'd told him about."

"Thaddeus," he choked on the name. "I never…I never meant for you…this is my fault."

"You're damn right it is. And after all of that, after all the work that he did for you, you up and dumped him the moment a hot piece of ass walked in the door. But it's okay, now. He's found a new friend. And we don't have time for your shit. You can keep your basement, that's all yours. We're taking over the rest of the house. There's no need to keep him cooped up down here any longer."

She winked at Tate, and together the two of them turned toward to stairs, stepping languidly out of the basement.

At the top step Thaddeus turned back, gazing at Tate once more.

"Keep the ball," he hissed, tossing the toy back down the stairs at Tate. Hayden slammed the door shut.


	17. Chapter 17 - The End

_It never seemed right that I didn't give this story a proper ending, and the fact that people are still sending me these beautiful messages about it made me finally sit down and put something down._

_I honestly can't say what it's meant to read through so many amazing comments, you are just so kind and generous with everything you've said. I had a lot of fun doing this, although I don't know where to go next. If anyone would like to see me write a new story, maybe about a new show or a character they love, I'd be happy to hear about it._

_But for now, thanks for wading through seventeen chapters! :)_

_-Cas_

~:~:~

For Tate, the days that followed were a blurred parade of dim light and abysmal darkness. How long he lay on the floor of the basement, letting the dust gather along the folds of his clothes and settle on his skin, he couldn't have said. Thaddeus had not returned, and in his state Tate shied away from the thought of the chaos he and Hayden had planned for the house.

GO AWAY. GO AWAY. GO AWAY. GO AWAY.

Violet's final scream resounded through his head like drumbeat. He replayed the scene over again to himself, driving the madness home. After all, here was the boy that would rape the mother of the girl he had fallen for. Thaddeus might have killed those children, but hadn't Tate himself been the one to construct the crime, setting the stage and all but acting it out himself? Thaddeus would never have done it on his own, without Tate's vivid fantasies of a school shooting to urge him on. Only Tate's own, damaged mind could ever conceive that level of depravity. He was broken. He was wrong.

The screams in his head raged louder.

Slowly, as though waking from a coma, he became aware that he wasn't alone. The screams weren't just in his head anymore - they were joined by someone with a higher, smaller voice, someone that wept and gurgled. When he thought he could stand again, Tate roused himself enough to investigate.

Nora looked exhausted. Somewhere, a little voice admonished him at how easily he'd forgotten her, how her existence had all but vanished from his mind. Her hand rocked an old cradle, and in it...

Tate stopped, staring down at the child. He was swaddled tightly in soft fabrics, sobbing inconsolably in the tremulant voice of a newborn.

"I don't recall asking for a headache, Tate, but it seems that's what your troubles have got me," Nora said coldly, giving the cradle a forceful push.

"Is he...is he mine?" Tate could barely manage a whisper.

"Who knows. There were two. Naturally I got this weak, sickly one that perished in half a second."

Tate traced a finger along the newborn's delicate skin, red from exertion. "He's so tiny."

"It's a baby, what did you expect? Now go away, go away, for goodness' sake. I need it to fall asleep, there's no good exciting it with someone new to look at. Leave, you've really done enough."

And there it was, his thanks for destroying his own life and those of the women he loved, captured in the tired wave of his surrogate mother's bejewelled hand. He stepped away from her, away from the little figure rolling helplessly in its crib.

Ben Harmon hung from the second floor balcony, eyes wide in death. Tate stared up at him in horror.

"Don't you just love what I've done with the place?"  
>Hayden sat on the stairs, cradling the second baby in her arms, a self-satisfied grin fixed on her face. "It's so perfect it's too perfect, you know. He laid out all these forms and documents, got his life insurance all in order. Made it so, stupidly easy. They'll think sad Ben Harmon killed himself, and Hayden gets a baby. Everyone's happy."<p>

Tate took the stairs two at a time. "Why did you do that?" he roared into her face. The baby started from its sleep with a cry, and Hayden shielded his face indignantly.

"Jeez, wonderboy, do you mind? I'm taking care of a little person here."

"You killed Violet's dad! Her dad! Hasn't she lost enough already?" He wanted to smack the grin off her face. Hell, he wanted to throw her off the balcony and break her spine again and again for all of eternity, but the tiny, live creature in her arms stopped him.

"Shows how much you know about love. I did that little bitch a favor. She gets mommy and daddy all to herself forever. Do you know how many kids have to grow up without their parents? She should be thanking me."

"You're evil. You're pure fucking evil, you know that?"

Hayden hummed cheerfully at the infant, letting it suckle her finger. "You know, I think this one's yours. He's got those big eyes. That dopey, well-meaning serial killer look about him."

The door downstairs creaked open, and Tate whirled. Constance stood in the entrance, staring at the swinging corpse overhead with distaste.

"Goddamn. God damn it."

"Constance." he glanced back at Hayden, but she'd vanished, taking the baby with her.

"Tate. You didn't do this, of course?" Constance was shaking her head, hunting in her purse for a light.

"No. Hayden. I only just saw it now."

"I knew when that man came to take my baby, I knew he was unstable. Had a wild look about him. I thought I'd just come check - lucky I did. Where has he left the child?"

"He didn't, she took the kid. I don't know where she went."

"The fool. I told him what this house would do. I told him."

Tate didn't care to stay and listen to her lamentations. He left her in the foyer with her cigarette.

~:~:~

The Murder House had never known such excitement. with the Harmons crossing over at last, clear battle lines had been drawn. Thaddeus, led by Hayden, had appealed to those spirits particularly drawn to retribution and malice, and they were gathering a sizeable following. Moira and the Harmons, along with the gentler creatures of the house, had likewise assembled. Between the dark walls and shadowy recesses of the mansion, the tension was brewing like a storm. Hayden was in ecstacy.

Tate couldn't have cared less. Immortals, locked in a battle over property rights. It was too ludicrous to contemplate. He'd taken to stalking Violet from the corners of mirrors and the ends of hallways, much as he had done when she first moved , too, was changing, learning to cope with all that had happened. From what he could see, she and her parents were, for the first time, starting to connect. He couldn't understand it. How had a family that had been so torn apart by living find solace in death? This hell he'd existed in for so long, they seemed so at home with. It baffled him.

Without the interruptions of school or work or routine, time once again took on its endless succession. Tate marked the days with the number of times Violet brushed her hair, or gazed out the window, or played ancient board games with her parents.

The day that the new tenants arrived came as something of a shock. None of them had really expected that the house would be bought again, after the latest spate of deaths, yet here they were, a handsome Spanish couple with their classically good-looking son. From the moment he stepped in the door, carefully calculated nonchalance and skateboard in hand, Violet had watched him, and Tate watched Violet, red-hot jealousy coursing through his body. He watched her go through his drawers the way he'd gone through hers, studying his music, running her fingers over the boy's collection of hoodies and jeans. Of course she'd want him. An eternity here, and nobody to dull the loneliness but a murdering rapist and a mutant with claws. Tate was surprised she hadn't jumped his bones the instant the boy stepped through the door.

And when she spoke to him, she was so cool. So mysterious and interesting, all the allure that he'd once held for her, offered up on a platter to this curly-haired stranger. Tate tortured himself with the sight, standing just out of the way, each word she spoke a dagger in him.

He waited until she left under pretext of needing to get home for dinner, until the boy had drifed off to sleep, before he took up his old position in the chair. The parallels struck him again. Once he'd watched the girl he loved as she slept, imagining the twisted dreams her dark little mind would create, and now he watched the boy he intended to give her as a soulmate. The last thing he could do for her, his only option if he could not be by her side. The madness that he'd allowed himself to sink into in the months since they'd separated was at last consuming him, and he threw himself into the mire willingly.

He must have made a sound, for the boy roused. Before he could fall asleep again Tate spoke.

"What were you dreaming about?" he asked.

The boy lurched upward. "Shit!"

"Bet I know," Tate continued softly. "I'd dream about her too, if I could dream. I don't think I do anymore." he was babbling, he knew, but he didn't stop. He needed to get his courage up. One last, mad act, and she'd be happy forever. That's all that mattered now.

The boy's anger was quickly overtaking his initial shock. "What the hell? What are you doing here? Who are you? What are you doing in my room?"

"This used to be my room. And then it was her's." He smiled at the memory of Violet unpacking her CDs; the first time he'd seen her brush the hair from her eyes; the strange old hats she used to wear. He clung to those memories like a life raft. "Violet. She was my girlfriend."

"The..uh, the freaky chick from before?"

That cut through his internal riot. "What'dya mean by 'freaky'?" he snarled.

"She..she seemed really cool," the boy backtracked. "Uh, nothing happened. She didn't say she had a boyfriend."

Tate shifted. "We kinda broke up." He felt the tears come, and brushed them away. Now wasn't the time.

"Right. Well, I know, I mean, it's totally hands off, dude. I get it." he was placating him, talking to him the way people spoke to idiots. No, the way they spoke to people at the edge of a building. Like their words were all that was needed to stop the darkness.

"No. I don't think you do."

Tate pushed himself out of the chair, ignoring the boy as he scrambled backward. He crossed to the door, slamming it shut. The last thing he needed was his parents to come barrelling in.

"I want her to be happy." He didn't know why it was so important that he explained, to this doomed creature, so unlike himself as to be the perfect match for Violet. "She liked you, I could tell. You're a good guy, right?"

"What?" the boy backed away from him.

Tate gestured at the photos on the dresser. "I mean you've got all these friends, you play sports. You've got good grades, right?"

"Average," the other replied, totally bewildered.

"Average is good," Tate encouraged. "Normal is good. She deserves normal."

"Get out of my way!" the boy yelled, flinging himself at Tate, who shoved him back to the ground.

"I DON'T WANT TO HURT YOU!" he yelled desperately. Taking a breath he pulled the knife he'd pilfered from the kitchen from his pocket. "Though I do have to kill you."

The boy stared up at him with honest brown eyes. He could probably never wrap his head around the sort of evil that had become so commonplace for Tate. He was perfect.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked. Tate ignored him, shifting the knife in his hand, steeling his courage. "Please, I told you man. Nothing happened!"

Tate snatched his collar, pulling the other boy toward him, driving the knife at his face. It wouldn't work, he couldn't- he snarled with frustration and tried again. He was evil, right? Evil to the core? This should come easy!

"Could you maybe not look at me? Could you like, stand up, or...I dunno, turn around or something?" He wrenched himself off the boy, pacing around the room. Keep it together. Come on.

The boy remained on the floor, hands around his throat where Tate had grabbed him. "Please..don't kill me." he whispered.

"Oh, it's nothing personal," Tate admonished. He still didn't understand - why didn't he understand? He had to do this, for her! "It's just that she's all alone. And that's not right. STAND UP!"

The boy started saying something in Spanish - praying, Tate thought in frustration. He pulled him close to his own body, holding the knife near his throat. One little cut, and it would be over, and Violet would be happy. Just one cut.

The door behind him creaked slightly, and her presence filled the room in an instant. And then she said his name.

"Tate, no."

His breath left him. His soul reached for her through the madness. He froze, the knife quivering against the boy's throat.

"Put down the knife, Tate."

He couldn't look at her. If he looked at her he'd crack into peices, and the thing still needed to be done. Tate grit his teeth. "I can't," he said softly. "I'm doing this for you. I couldn't save you." The cracks were forming anyway. "It's my fault you're alone," he sobbed.

"But I'm not alone. My family's here now-"

"It's not enough. You need someone!"

"Not him."

"Then what do you want?" he yelled. His resolve was slipping fast.

"What I wanted was you."

Slowly he turned to her, their gaze meeting for the first time since she'd sent him away. Her wide eyes filled with tears.

"You told me to go away," he said uncertainly. The tiniest shaft of hope broke through the darkness. Could she still want him? She didn't want someone else, she'd said it herself.

"Yeah. But I never said goodbye. Come let me say goodbye."

He looked at her, and his hand dropped from the boy's throat, and Tate stumbled to Violet, his trembling hands around her once more, his skin alight with the feel of her fingertips against his cheeks, her lips against him, her delicate body pressed to his, with all of the desperate urgency as the first time they'd made love. He couldn't think, couldn't cope. All he knew was that she was in his arms, and that she was holding him back, and that he was safe again.

Vaguely, he heard the boy race from the room, and the soft brush of her fingers pull back from his cheek. For a breath more, she pressed her head against his own, tracing his lips with her thumb. "Goodbye, Tate," she whispered gently, and she was gone.

Tate felt his soul fracture, all but heard the splintered peices hit the floor as he shattered apart.

~:~:~

He should have finished, should have let himself fade into the darkness for good, but there was still one hope left, and foolishly he let that hope bloom and flourish. He hadn't been able to kill the boy, as hard as he'd tried. Didn't that mean something? Didn't that offer him some sort of redemption, that he still had some goodness inside?

And so he went to the one man who he'd ever entrusted with a secret, the one man who could ever have fixed him. He found Ben Harmon sweeping the floor, looking for all the world like he was making himself at home.

"Have you got a minute?"

Ben froze.

"I'm the last person you wanna see right now," Tate said preemptively, holding up his hands in a gesture of peace.

"You're not a person. You're a monster." Ben turned back to his work.

Tate had expected this; he pressed forward. "I really miss our talks, Ben. They were really helping me."

Ben laughed. "Bullshit. You're a psychopath, Tate. It's a mental disorder. Therapy can't cure it."

Tate felt his insides churn. "So that's your diagnosis? I'm a psychopath?" Not the first time he'd heard it, of course, but somehow this time it hurt worse than it ever had.

"Yep, and the worst kind," Ben said cuttingly. "You're charismatic and compelling. A pathological liar. But don't listen to me. I'm a total fraud. And by the way? Therapy doesn't work."

"It doesn't work? Then why do people do it?"

"Because they don't want to take any responsibility for their crappy lives," Ben snarled. "So they pay a therapist to listen to their bullshit and make it all feel...special. So they can blame their crazy mothers for everything that went wrong." He smiled knowingly at Tate. "Sound familiar?"

Tate could barely hear through the roar in his ears. He felt himself laugh. "You son of a bitch."

"We're not so different, Tate," Ben said thoughtfully. "I'm a bad person too. I hurt the people I was supposed to...love the most."

"And they forgave you, right?" Tate jumped at the chance. "Maybe Violet will forgive me too."

"She can't. You can only forgive someone for what they've done to you directly. Those people you murdered? They're the only ones who can forgive you. And you took away their chance."

Tate could have stopped him, could have explained what really happened. But he knew there was no use. Not committing one evil did not absolve him of all the other things he was responsible for. He was still guilty, one way or another. He felt the last of that light inside dwindle and die.

"So that's it?" he said hopelessly, feeling the tears come again. "There's nothing I can...there's nothing I can do? There's no chance of mercy?"

Ben studied him for a second. He rested the broom handle on his chest and slowly brought his hands together in mocking applause. Tate bore it in silence. He deserved this, he knew.

"Terrific performance Tate," said Ben shrewdly, a cruel smile on his lips. "The whole 'misunderstood kid' act? Ohh. I fell for it. Violet did, too. But a psychopath by definition is incapable of remorse. So, come on. Let's try to do this again, for real this time." He placed the broom handle under Tate's chin, jerked it up painfully. "You destroyed everything that mattered most to me. What could you possibly want from me now?"

And there it was, the agony he hid with sarcasm, the terrible torment behind that cheerful father's face. He might have accepted his fate, might be learning to love his afterlife, but it had come at a heartbreaking cost. Tate pulled the handle from his throat.

"I don't know about definitions, but I really am sorry, Ben. To you, more than anyone."

"Sorry's are easy," Ben quipped. "It's about taking responsibility for the things you've done. Christ. You can't even say the words." He turned away in disgust.

It was his last shot, and it was a long one, but Tate took it. He knew what Ben wanted, and he would give anything to be let back in again. Even confess to atrocities that he hadn't done.

"In 1994," he paused, accepting the lie, "I set my mom's boyfriend on fire. Then I shot and killed 15 kids at Westfield High. I murdered the gay couple who lived here before you...and I raped your wife. There were other things, too, other people I hurt. I'll tell you everything."

It was no use. Ben met his gaze, tears filling his eyes. "I'm not your priest, Tate. I can't absolve you of any of this." He turned away again.

"Right. I get that. But can you just," Tate waved his hands hopelessly, "hang out with me sometimes?"

He thought Ben wasn't going to turn around, that he'd disappear in an instant to another part of the house. The man stood still, a muscle in his wrist working furiously for a long time. At last, he turned slowly, his eyes meeting Tate's in a guarded way.

"We're going to be stuck here for a long time, kid. We'll just see how things pan out." They looked at one another for another long moment before Ben turned back to sweeping, and Tate backed from the room.

~:~:~

Somehow, after everything, Tate felt he had some semblance of closure. The longing could never leave him, of course - he still watched her, still haunted her steps from time to time, but the madness had left him at last. A milennia might pass before she spoke to him again, but the thought filled him with purpose, now, where once he'd felt only cold terror.

He might have found his solace, but Hayden's resolve hadn't shifted. The Harmons had quietly claimed the bright parts of the house, the most sane; theirs was a world of sunlit rooms and fresh breezes through open windows while Hayden skulked in the shadows, biding her time. Oddly, he felt sorry for her. Her vengance, her endless struggle for power, was all she had left. He let her be, with the odd verbal battle here and there to keep things interesting.

And sometimes, when there had been a few bad months or the darkness crept in around the edges, he'd curl up on Violet's bed, imagining the phantom scent of her still clinging to the pillows, lost in the soft memory of their precious weeks, back before they'd destroyed one another. And whether it was just another part of the fantasy or not, sometimes he could swear he saw a slim little figure slip past the doorway, like someone had been watching him too.


End file.
